


Mental Health Whump

by newisalwaysbetter



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: ALL the redemption arcs, Alcohol Abuse, Caretaking, Drinking, Drug Use, EVERYONE GETS A REDEMPTION ARCCCC, F/F, F/M, Field Surgery, Food Issues, Friendship, Gen, Hospitals, Kissing, Lots of that too, M/M, Multi, Muscle cramps, Period Cramps, Pining, Recovery, Redemption Arcs, Religious Content, Self Care, Smoking, Soft Flynn, Team Bonding, Team Snuggling, Team as Family, Whump, YOU get a redemption arc! YOU get a redemption arc!, flynn's aggressive affection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-02-23 21:33:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 21,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18710356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newisalwaysbetter/pseuds/newisalwaysbetter
Summary: In the US, May is mental health month, so to celebrate that, I’m going to try a new 31-day writing challenge!! Seeing as there’s a certain amount of thematic and therapeutic association between whump and mental health, each day of May will have a new fic centering on themes of self-care. (Will also probably be whumpy, as per my usche.) I’m going to try and keep these somewhat shorter than my usual 1k fics, and characters/pairings will range widely within the Timeless cast.





	1. Day 1: Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for hunger/food issues, menstrual pain (gave myself sympathy cramps with this, oops) and (mis)use of drugs and alcohol.

There are some battles Lucy fights alone. Her monthly cramps are one of them.

They begin, on a mission, as a low churning in her gut, and by the time the  _Lifeboat_  touches down in the present day, she’s stumbling from the ship with a strangled cry. Jess and Jiya catch her–they’ve all been riding the same schedule for months now–and guide her to the room Jiya and Rufus share. For the next ten days, it will belong to Lucy alone.

Isolation is not enough. Agony quickly curls around the base of Lucy’s spine and tears up it with vicious fury, and the scream she’s been holding in for hours finally rips free. Lucy stifles it in a pillow before the others can hear, and fumbles for the bottle under the bed.

Some twenty years of practice have taught her well, and Lucy has been stockpiling booze and pills for weeks now in preparation. The others wouldn’t approve, she knows, but drugging herself into a stupor is preferable to tolerating their helpless concern, even if it is more pleasant than her mother’s  _I know it hurts, Lucy, but can’t you be a little quieter?_

Lucy’s not strong enough to hold back the screams alone, but after a few slugs of vodka and far more painkillers than the recommended dose, darkness clouds the edge of her vision, and Lucy’s limbs have melted into lead. She still jerks violently in the bed as the pain wracks her, but she’s too weak to do more than weep helplessly into the pillow. It’s a dry-mouthed, half-waking hell, but at least no one can hear her scream.

Which is why she’s surprised to find, upon waking from a painful dream, a cup of tea waiting on her nightstand.

It’s long-cold, and sweeter than she likes it, but Lucy drinks it anyway, just as she does the one that appears after her next nap, and the next. Once, she wakes up cradling a hot water bottle. It’s lukewarm, but the heat radiating through her body promises that someone has started watching out for her.

She catches him on the third day.

Lucy’s been floating just below the surface of consciousness for what feels like days, an idea supported by the hunger rolling through her stomach. It’s the creak of door hinges near her head that draws her up and out of the fog, and when her eyes drift open, there’s a large, callused hand frozen over her nightstand, seconds from setting down a steaming cup. Her gaze traces up the muscular arm extending through the open door, until she’s looking into the darkness of the hall beyond. Four feet above her, a familiar green eye hovers in the doorway, wide with alarm at being caught.

Lucy tries to mumble  _Flynn?_ , but her lips won’t cooperate and all that comes out is an inquisitive little whimper.

“Lucy?” Flynn sets down the mug and steps into the space of the door, all hesitation forgotten. When he kneels beside her bed, she has a better view of his unabashed concern, and when he speaks, his frustration. “What have you been  _doing?_ ”

Between the hangover beating a drum on the inside of her skull and Flynn’s general disapproval of her coping methods, that’s a question Lucy’s not remotely ready to answer. Her eyes burn against her will, and the tears have just started to drop when Flynn glances down and away. “Sorry. That was intrusive.”

He braces himself on the nightstand like he’s about to leave, and although Lucy’s in no state to provide pleasant company, the loneliness seizes her like a panic. She grits out, “ _no,_ ” and extends a shaky hand to catch his sleeve between her fingers. Flynn freezes, his face uncertain, and Lucy struggles to say something to keep him there. “Stay here, please, just don’t–”

The rest of her words are ripped away as a new cramp hits, like nails in her abdomen, and Lucy’s body clenches like a fist. The seizing of her muscles jackknifes her arm against her body, and it would be easy for Flynn to let her hand be ripped from him, but instead he follows her motion, letting her pull him in.

“Don’t ask,” Lucy begs. Her eyes, screwed shut, crack open, and through her tears, sees Flynn gently shutting the door behind him. Making sure none of the others will hear. Looking out for her, without her having to ask. “My mother said–she said–” she gasps, wide-eyed, as another cramp hits. Lucy tries to keep speaking, but the agony shreds her words into soft cries.

Flynn folds her hands in his, and they’re soft and warm, and that alone is enough to draw tears out of her. “Shhh. Don’t fight it,” he murmurs, voice soft. “Take your time.”

Lucy knows she won’t be able to finish the story, and fresh tears rise to her eyes. “Don’t leave,” she gasps between pangs. “Don’t leave me, Flynn, I–” 

Flynn doesn’t leave her. Instead, he gently strokes her knuckles, and whispers gentle words, while Lucy shudders and keens and clings to where she’s got his sleeve between her fingers. She doesn’t realize she’s thrashing until Flynn lays one big hand against her head, and Lucy turns her head into his hand, muffling her scream in Flynn’s big palm. He might be trembling; she isn’t sure.

“Oh, trust me,” Flynn murmurs, almost to himself. “Leaving you is not something I would do.”

Lucy lets her eyes drift shut, and rests under his hands.

Flynn clears his throat. “There is something–I think I could help you, Lucy, if you would let me touch you.”

“Yes,” she breathes–besides the fact that she’d try anything at this point, Flynn must know she trusts him. He must.

But when she sees him blinking in surprise, and trying to hide it behind a mask, she realizes he doesn’t.

With infinite caution, Flynn visibly raises the hand not resting on her head, and lays it against her abdomen. She’s clammy from sweat, and his hand is warm, and Lucy nods, a few tears of relief slipping free. Flynn rubs small circles onto her belly, applying gentle pressure, his weathered face unreadable, and Lucy melts, the pain leaching away. It’s been so long, she realizes with a pang  _not_ in her stomach, since she was touched.

“This isn’t,” she pants, “a journal thing, is it?”

Flynn swallows. “It  _was_  a Lorena thing.”

“My god; I’m sorry.” Flynn jerks his head dismissively, but it isn’t enough, so she says: “It was my mother, who told me to be quiet. Apparently all the women in our family have had cramps like mine, but they get worse with stress.” She sighs and runs a hand through her birds’-nest hair. “Since we started fighting Rittenhouse.” Her laugh is bitter. “Once again, my family’s legacy is just…” she can’t look at Flynn. For a moment, the distance stretches wide between them. “Pain.”

Flynn is silent for a long time, but his hand doesn’t slow. “I know many ways to fight them,” he murmurs finally. “Have tried many. This, though–” his gaze lifts to hers, heavy with trust. “This is one of the best.”

There are some battles Lucy fights alone. But Flynn, for the first time, makes her believe she shouldn’t have to.


	2. Day 2: Puzzles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy some soft team bonding!! Set S2, with warning for alcohol mention.

It’s not clear where the puzzle’s come from.

Its appearance is not surprising, per se; all four members of the base team have their own ways of dealing with the anxiety of the away missions. Denise knits; Flynn bakes; Connor drinks; Jiya and Jess stream endless reality television, and on more than one occasion have attempted to lure their elders into joining them, but Connor insists he’s determined not to lose any more of his already diminished cranial capacity.

So the fact of his starting the jigsaw puzzle on Sunday, while the team is away, is not surprising. The fact of his continuing it after they return; now  _that’s_  unusual.

Jiya complains that it’s not like they need another distraction, but as Wyatt points out, at least it keeps Connor from trying to cook. Denise is just baffled by the puzzle’s appearance, as she didn’t buy it for him. But when she dares to ask, Connor just gives her a Look that says,  _That’s not really the question, is it?_

Jess is the first one to join him, being the only member of the base team without a designated task. She pours over the puzzle with a remarkable focus, but Wyatt can’t stay away from her for long and soon enough he’s leaning over her shoulder, bickering playfully. That’s how Denise leaves them, on Monday night.

The week drags on, with no word from the  _Mothership_ , and one by one, the others are lured in. Flynn is tired of Wyatt’s unhelpful suggestions (”Too much brainwork for you, Logan?”) and succumbs when he’s taunted (”Like you could do better?”), as does Lucy when Connor points out a particularly difficult section (“Wait, wait, I think I can get this”).

Then Jiya walks by and playfully tosses a puzzle piece at Wyatt, and it is  _on._

Denise skips one day–just one–and comes in on Thursday to a scene of utter chaos.

The common room is filled with dirty plates and the signature smell of Flynn’s baking. While Rufus clears away a case of empty beer bottles, Jiya dumps a box of puzzle pieces over Wyatt’s head. (The pieces all over the floor suggest that perhaps this has happened before.) Wyatt laughs an objection, and in a flurry of cardboard, Jiya, Jess, and Wyatt are suddenly throwing pieces across the table at each other, all pretense of puzzling forgotten. 

Looking casual as he ever has in a soft sweatshirt, Flynn perches on the couch next to Jiya, trying and failing to take up as little space as possible. Occasionally a stray puzzle piece bounces off his broad form, but Flynn just huffs and refocuses on finding relevant pieces to hand to Lucy. She’s become engrossed in finishing one corner, and her face lights up every time she’s handed an edge piece. 

Denise cocks an eyebrow. “Guess I missed the party.”

“Is it morning already?” Rufus bustles over and thrusts a mug of coffee into her hands. He’s carrying several more, some empty, and Denise realizes that they must have been up all night doing this. She should object, she thinks, to their missing sleep, but she also can’t remember the last time they were all smiling like this. 

Rufus distributes the coffee around, and tucks himself against Jiya’s other side, feet up on the coffee table, half-fiddling with a component and half-watching Jiya with adoring eyes. And although Connor sits to the side on a folding chair, he presides over the mayhem with a quiet smile, mostly watching, but occasionally, when the time is right, adding a single piece to the puzzle. 


	3. Day 3: Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garcyatt, set post-Rittenhouse, pre-relationship. Warning for alcohol.

“For the record…I never said this.” Wyatt slides into the opposing seat of the booth Flynn’s been occupying for the last three hours, strategically chosen to provide the best view of where Lucy is perched across the bar. “And I  _wouldn’t_ be saying it at all if you weren’t sitting sober in the corner, but.” Wyatt lifts his glass, smiling easily, and the motion makes him tip him forward so he’s leaning over the table. “Here we are.” Wyatt cocks his head, smirking suggestively, and half-whispers: “You’ve gotta make a move.”

Flynn doesn’t immediately respond, probably because Wyatt is now leaning close enough to ghost whiskeyed breath across Flynn’s face, and those blue eyes keep dropping to Flynn’s lips uncertainly, and if he wasn’t fully convinced this is the drink talking, Flynn would close those three inches and kiss that pink mouth right now, tenure party be damned.

“Make a move,” he repeats instead, keeping his voice cold, keeping his distance.

“On Lucy.” Wyatt frowns and leans back in his seat, drink in hand, evidently oblivious to the seventeen trains of thought colliding across Flynn’s brainscape. Flynn exhales heavily, wrapping a trembling hand around his water glass to steady himself. “C’mon, Flynn, you think I don’t see you looking at her?”

Flynn’s occupied with not having a heart attack when that sentence strikes him with its full weight. His eyes widen a moment before he controls himself, and slides his water across the table with a sandpapery laugh. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not, for the record.” Wyatt sets down his cup. “This is my one drink for the night. I promised Lucy.” He smiles wistfully. “Like that makes a difference anyway?  _In vino veritas,_  and all that crap. So tell me.” There’s something hopeful in his blue eyes that Flynn can’t quite place. “What’s holding you back?”

“Maybe I’m trying to show a little respect,” Flynn deadpans.

Wyatt ignores him. “For Lucy and me? Nah.” Wyatt chuckles sadly, and the laugh doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “We had our chance, you know? And I screwed that up, right? Like everything.” He downs a gulp of whiskey, winces, turns back to Flynn, all the while looking softer and more alert than he has any right to be. “Listen; that’s why seeing you and Lucy dance around each other like this, that’s hard for me. When we get an opportunity like that…” Wyatt shakes his head, gives that sad little laugh again. “We both know how easily you can lose that.”

Flynn nods, not trusting himself to speak. Words can end a family as effectively as bullets. Which may be why he and Wyatt and Lucy have never discussed the stumbling emotional chaos that defined the roots of their friendship out loud. Flynn’s determined not to be the one to rehash it.

“I don’t deserve her,” he confesses finally, because it’s true, and because the looseness of Wyatt’s lips is loosening his as well.

“‘Course not. No one deserves Lucy.” Wyatt spares a look across the bar, and there’s so much naked longing in that glance that it makes Flynn ache. “But I think maybe she might deserve…”

Maybe it’s the warm air between them, or the laughter ringing around them, or the way the soft lights of the bar blur the edges of the night like a watercolor painting, but Flynn takes a chance. “Us?”

Wyatt’s watching Lucy across the bar, his eyes soft, and if he objects to the pronoun, he doesn’t show it. “Yeah.”

Flynn looks down at his hands, folded on the table. “You know, Wyatt, that I never intended to return to my family once I brought them back to life?” He takes a breath. “Because I knew I could never give them what they deserve. So with Lucy.”

Wyatt shakes his head, eyes twinkling. “Nah. I don’t buy that.”

“Of course you don’t; look where you’re coming from.” Flynn scoffs, and it comes out harsher than he means it, sharp with his own regret and fury. “You and Lucy–with your normal lives, you’ve had time to practice; you had something to come back to. Something you  _could_  come back to. Who is there for me? Who could possibly…?”

Wyatt cocks his head, like the answer is obvious. “Us.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Flynn shakes his head. “To have someone to touch, to hold, to…” he trails off, unable to say the word. “It has been…longer than you know.”

“And if you don’t make a move, it’ll be even longer,” Wyatt coaxes. He sits up, leaning back over the table. “It’s like riding a bike; you just gotta get back on.”

“Maybe I’m waiting for something.” Flynn’s eyes dart away. “For the right time.”

“Screw that,” Wyatt mutters, and downs his glass right in front of Flynn’s face. After he sets down the cup, Wyatt’s hand returns, ghosting along Flynn’s scruff. His eyes are close, and very clear.

And when Wyatt’s smile turns up at the edges, and he leans in to brush a feathery kiss across Flynn’s lips, Flynn is in no position to stop him.

Wyatt is panting into the kiss, and it’s fumbling and awkward over the table, but still gently insistent, and Flynn realizes with a little wrench of his heart that it must have been some time since Wyatt kissed anyone either. 

But Wyatt is right, Flynn thinks, as he slides one big hand around the nape of Wyatt’s neck to pull him in, to steady him as he kisses that pliant mouth open, that it’s not something you forget.

_Damn him._

“See that?” Wyatt pulls away with a soft  _pop,_  smiling, secure in the rightness of the moment. “Just like riding a bike.”

As his breath comes back to him, Flynn glances across the room and sees Lucy. Her eyes are on them. Flynn could swear she’s smiling. His eyes widen, and he draws a quick breath.

“We don’t deserve her,” Wyatt murmurs, “I know. But we still need her, right?”

Flynn nods against his lips, still cradling Wyatt’s head in his hands.

“’S the same with you.” Wyatt’s eyes drift shut, his lashes fluttering. “Forget deserve. We can’t keep letting guilt get between us.” His voice is plaintive., his eyes pleading. “But you’ve gotta do it. Go to her, I mean.” He fists a hand in Flynn’s lapel, suddenly urgent. “It’s gotta be you, you’ve got to…close the triangle.” His smile is bright.

“I won’t be enough,” Flynn whispers, like a prayer.

“You’re enough for me.” Wyatt shrugs. “That’s gotta be enough for her, too.”

And as Flynn rises from the booth, Lucy’s eyes glinting at him from across the darkened bar, Wyatt rises with him and slips his hand in Flynn’s. That hand steadies him as they begin to cross the distance, and although Flynn still cannot believe he himself is enough, the guilt has lifted from his shoulders like a weight. 

They will be enough, he thinks. Together.


	4. Day 4: Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set S3, no warnings besides canon-typical gunplay.

Most missions, at this point, proceed with minimal surprises. Most missions also have Lucy on them. This one is the exception.

Any time they go out without a historian they’re running a risk, and with Flynn on the same team as Wyatt and Rufus, even moreso, as they learn when their bickering leads them straight into an ambush. In the midst of the gunfire, and without the advantage of height, age, or weapon, Jiya does her best to restrain their bickering on sheer will alone. She is partially successful.

“It’s not Rufus’s fault,” Jiya mutters, as she and Wyatt stalk through the warehouse in search of their kidnapped teammates. “He’s not sleeping. I mean, even less than usual. And god bless Flynn, but he’s not exactly easy to deal with.”

“Ah, he’s not that bad, is he?” Wyatt says, and Jiya cocks one eyebrow.

“You’re obligated to say that; he’s your boyfriend.”

Wyatt rounds a corner, gun in hand, and comes up short, smirking over his shoulder at Jiya. “You sure about that?” 

Jiya comes up beside him, and snorts at the sight.

Rufus and Flynn are tied back-to-back. By all rights, this should have resulted in squabbling audible from miles away, but this mission is in all things an exception. Because Rufus and Flynn are fully unconscious–not drugged, but peacefully asleep. Rufus, cuddler that he is, is pressed up against Flynn’s back, head lolling sideways to rest on Flynn’s shoulder. Flynn’s tired face is slack with sleep, and he’s snoring raggedly.

Jiya sags with relief, leaning against the wall and running a hand through her hair. A giggle escapes her. “I almost hate to wake them up.”

“We’ve got time.” Wyatt crosses to the window to glance out, and when he’s confirmed it’s safe, perches on the sill with soft eyes. “Let ‘em sleep for a while.”


	5. Day 5: Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set S3, with warnings for injury, blood, consensual field surgery including needles, and guns and gun threats.

In spite of the pain ripping through her side, Emma manages to grit an idle, mocking tone through her teeth. “After all that practice trying to get your dead wife back, I thought you’d be a better shot.”

A muscle twists in Flynn’s jaw, but he doesn’t give her the satisfaction. His eyes, however, are as cold as the shaking barrel that presses into her temple, and Emma snarls, wincing away.

Above her, Lucy puts a hand on the muzzle of the gun, forcing it down, and after a moment’s furious look, Flynn complies.

“What’s this, Princess? Sympathy for the enemy?”

The words come out between little gasps of pain, but Emma manages a smirk. At least _her_ weak spot will heal.

The others tense as Lucy kneels down beside her, but Emma is grateful for the chance to glare into those dark eyes, even if she finds none of the vicious intent there she expects.

“You can keep fighting, and talking, and trying to crawl away, and trying to set us off, and I really will let Flynn shoot you. Or worse, leave you here to bleed out.” Lucy’s gaze flickers to the spreading stain at Emma’s side, and for a moment, that tight control falters. Emma watches her swallow before she continues. “Or you can sit quietly while Wyatt patches you up, and maybe have a chance at living.”

“I won’t beg,” Emma snaps. “I’d rather you just shoot me here.”

“I know.” Lucy shakes her head, eyes firm. “I don’t care about that. Are you going to let us treat you?”

Emma doesn’t move for a moment, eyes flashing between the captors standing over her. Then, silent and trembling, she lifts her trembling hands to expose her wound.

Wyatt’s hands are surprisingly gentle as he stitches her up. Although it makes her gut twist, Emma defiantly watches the needle work in her skin. Sitting through the pain is easy. She’ll prove she’s not weak.

Doing so becomes harder when her trembling forces Wyatt to hold her hip to keep her steady, and Emma has to swallow down the moan that bubbles up her throat. Touch--even from someone she’d gladly put a bullet in--lights her up electric, half in pleasure, half in revulsion. She wants to scream and shy away. She wants to lean into the touch like a starved cat.

The worst, however, is the soft murmur of “You’re okay,” as she’s dragged to her feet. Emma’s eyes burn.

It would’ve been better if they’d laughed.


	6. Day 6: Liquid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Platonic flogan set post-S2/S3, when they’re starting to become something resembling friends. Flynn is trying to be Part Of The Team. Warnings for cursing, minor injury, and Flynn’s insistent (but consensual) caretaking.

Wyatt keeps his composure until he’s slipped out of the  _Lifeboat_  and down one of the bunker’s more deserted halls. After a furtive glance confirms that he’s alone, he sags against the wall, clutching at his aching shoulder. The pain he’s been ignoring floods his consciousness like a dam breaking, and Wyatt lets his head fall back and whines through his teeth.

His shoulder feels like stone under his hand, and Wyatt lets his eyes drift shut as he tries to work out the cramp. He’s tougher than this. He’s a soldier. He’s the only one of his old unit not to come out with hearing damage. 

Which makes it particularly annoying that he’s somehow oblivious to being approached, as he realizes when his eyes flutter open to reveal a glowering shadow looming over him.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Flynn mutters when Wyatt yelps and swats at him. “It’s onlyme.” 

The motion yanks on Wyatt’s cramping shoulder, and he gives up halfway through and slumps against the concrete, little squeaks slipping out with every breath. “Honestly, even if you weren’t wincing with every step, anyone with half a brain could tell you’re in pain by all your whining.”

“Fuck off, Flynn.” Wyatt tries to push past him, but Flynn shoulders him back with one powerful shove.

“I’m sorry; that was…unkind.” Although more or less pinning him to the wall, Flynn avoids Wyatt’s gaze. “I didn’t mean it as an insult; it’s merely a description.” Flynn speaks with exaggerated patience. “You have a problem.”

“Yeah, standing right in front of me.” Although he has to grit his teeth to do it, Wyatt manages to raise his good arm to plant a finger on Flynn’s chest. “How about this: shove off. Problem solved.” 

“Oh, on the contrary.” Flynn crosses his arms, a mocking playing over his weathered face. “Since it’s affecting the team, now it’s my problem.” He plants a finger on Wyatt’s chest in return. “I don’t want this to be my problem, Wyatt. So!” Flynn barks, and his hand moves up to Wyatt’s aching shoulder. “New plan: I…help you.”

“That’ll be a first,” Wyatt mutters.

“For once we agree.”

“Yeah, I’ll pass; I’m not stupid.”

A delighted grin spreads across Flynn’s face. “I’d disagree, but we don’t have all day.”

“Yeah, I heard it as soon as…” Wyatt breaks off as the cramp seizes his muscle and chokes off his words in a gasp.

“I’ve had the same training, Wyatt. Some of the same injuries. I know how to help, if you’ll let me.”

“Okay,” Wyatt weakly pokes Flynn’s chest. “But you’d better make it good.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Flynn is as good as his word. Wyatt sits on the common room couch, leaning forward, while Flynn works his aching shoulder with both hands. It takes some thirty minutes, but eventually Flynn gives his shoulder a sharp squeeze and a little of the pain leaches away. Wyatt can’t help the soft groan that escapes, and although Flynn remains mercifully silent, he works over that spot with strong, patient hands until the tension drains free and the muscle relaxes. 

Wyatt’s breathing shallowly, liquid under Flynn’s hands.

He almost looks asleep, and Flynn’s hands are lifting gently from his shoulders when Wyatt mumbles, clearly: “You  _are_  good at that.”

“Better?” Flynn says, voice surprisingly soft.

Wyatt looks like he’s going to say something, but then he clears his throat, and looks away, and the moment passes. “Yeah, and Flynn?” He clears his throat. “You ever need me to return the favor…” A brusque nod. “You let me help, all right?”

It’s hesitant, but Flynn gives a serpentine nod in return. “…Thank you for saying that. Coffee?”

“Hell yes. Black.”

"Yes, I know."


	7. Day 7: Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More team bonding!! In my world all these idiots cuddle 24/7 because boundaries are overrated when you love each other and are living in a small space. Ships or lack thereof are up to your discretion, set S3, with one mild injury mention.

Even months after his eyes heal, Flynn can’t seem to get warm.

Upon their return from December in Yakutsk, Flynn’s joints and heart ache in a way that reminds him of Antarctica and of being left behind. While the others wander off to change, Flynn occupies the bunker couch, avoiding the twin chill and solitude of his pit of a bedroom. He curls around his core, still wearing six layers of heavy coats, and studiously pretends to watch some mind-numbing silent film while he tries to rub some feeling back into his itching hands.

Being included is still new enough that Flynn is surprised every time they come to him, one by one. Lucy is the first, of course, straddling his lap with a questioning look and slipping the coats from his shoulders. Deprived of his armor, Flynn trembles so hard he think he might fly apart, either from cold or from the strange, newfound trust of it all.

Then Lucy drapes herself over him, body to body, arms around his neck and chin hooked over his shoulder, and her slight weight feels like home, and a reminder that they’ve both come home alive. 

They’re _all_ alive, Flynn’s reminded with a warm curl around his heart, when Jiya wordlessly sinks onto the couch next to him. He side-eyes her as Jiya lifts up his arm to tuck herself beneath it and snuggle up against his side. She slides a warm arm behind the small of his back, and rests her head on his shoulder, forehead against Lucy’s arm. Those dark eyes find theirs, and she nods. “Lucy. Flynn.”

“Hey, Jiya.” Lucy’s eyes are soft. “Where’s Rufus?”

“In the bathroom. He’ll be here soon.” Jiya lifts her head from Flynn’s shoulder long enough to call out, “Rufus? Hurry up.”

“Dang.” Wyatt’s gentle chuckle comes from somewhere above and behind. “Ladies’ man, huh, Flynn?”

Flynn’s frozen brain is slowly formulating a deeply cutting response, when Lucy fists a hand in the fabric at Wyatt’s hip and tugs. “No fighting,” she orders, exhaustion blunting her tone. “Quiet, and get down here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wyatt says lightly, and when he settles against Flynn’s other side, he slips his shoulder under Flynn’s to link their arms. Flynn wraps his hand around the warm joint of Wyatt’s knee, knuckles going white, holding him close.

“Have a little heart, Wyatt.” Jess announces her presence by ruffling each of their hair in turn. “A little cuddle won’t take away your man card.”

“You’re just saying that ‘cause you want in.” Wyatt smirks up at her and gestures to the couch, eyes twinkling. “Too bad we’re full.”

“Oh, I think  _I_  see a space.” Jess drops onto Wyatt’s lap, punching an amused grunt out of him, and swings her legs up to lie across what little space of Flynn’s lap is unoccupied. (Her feet land on Jiya, who snorts.) Then Jess leans back, tucking her face into Wyatt’s neck. 

Rufus is the last to join them, emerging from the bathroom to plant a kiss on Jiya’s head and wrap around her side. His head comes to rest on where Flynn’s big arm holds her close, and the warmth of Rufus’s body blankets Flynn’s cold hand.

“It’s been too long,” Lucy mumbles, when their heat has surrounded them fully, and they’re all breathing together. “Since we did this.”

“Seriously?” Jess snorts. “What about last week, in Appalachia?”

“That was for survival.” Wyatt’s eyes are closed, his head resting where Lucy’s arm meets Flynn’s shoulder. “Doesn’t count.”

“And what do you call this?” Rufus says. “It’s not exactly a bear den in here.”

“Hot enough to be,” Jiya says, without bite, and Flynn glances over the assortment of familiar bodies weighing him down. They’ve all got their eyes closed, some are panting wetly, and he sees, upon closer observation, that they’ve all stripped down to tank tops and underclothes. The air around him is warm, more so than even their presence would allow for. They’ve turned up the heat, he realizes. 

Long after they stopped being on opposite sides, they all never cease to surprise him.

“This is…survival.” Flynn’s warm, deep voice rumbles through their connected bodies. “In its own way.”

Someone hums in agreement.

Flynn doesn’t generally close his eyes at these times; losing one family has taught him that the next is best protected by his alert wakefulness. Still, it’s hard to think of fear when Lucy’s hips fit clean against his, and Jiya is burrowed deep into his side, and Wyatt is unconsciously nuzzling into his collarbone, and his arm is trapped between Rufus and Jiya, and Jess and Lucy are holding hands at the nape of his neck. Their heartbeats sing around him, and Flynn’s eyes flutter shut, just for a moment, warm from more than their bodies, more than their touch.


	8. Day 8: Learning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I like to think that when they were all looking for clues when Jiya was lost in time, Flynn is also looking because This Is Daughter Now. Quick drabble, set early in 2.10, minor injury and implied death mention.

Flynn staggers to his room as quickly as his spinning head will allow. He can take a few hits; the betrayal stings worse. 

(It’s easier to focus on Wyatt’s failure than his own.)

He’s had precious few moments with Jiya, so there’s only one place to check. The book reveals nothing, however, and Flynn throws it down on the bed, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. What he’d give for another second–

He hardly hears Lucy’s call, too busy scouring the book for the third time.

He’s lost two daughters to Rittenhouse. This one, at least, he intends to get back.


	9. Day 9: Color

“How much do you know about synesthesia?” Rufus’s voice is shaking.

He’s speaking softly, his lips hovering next to Jiya’s ear where she’s cradled against him. They should be safe in the warehouse. Should be. “It’s a condition–not like yours, it’s harmless–where the brain associates sensory details that shouldn’t go together. Like colors. I have it.” Rufus rocks gently, swallowing down the panic that chokes his voice, trying to keep himself calm. “I associate colors, with people. Always have. It’s not something I try to do, or even that I think about very much? It just…happens.” He touches her face. “Like us.

“I’m going to tell you about them, now. Partly because I need to keep talking or I’m going to panic, but also…” he gives a strangled chuckle. “Because I want to tell you everything, Jiya.

“Lucy is…” Rufus looks up, seeking strength. “This warm, dark red. Wyatt is a fiery orange, go figure; Connor is bright bronze–like metal, right–and Anthony is– _was–_ indigo.” He laughs brokenly. “Even  _Flynn_  has a color. How screwed up is that?”

“But I won’t tell you what color you are.” Rufus cups her face. “Not until you come back to me. Okay, Jiya? So you’ve got to, now. Because…” He glances up to watch the empty door, willing Lucy and Wyatt to come back. “I don’t want to keep secrets from you any more.”

* * *

When her eyes flicker open, the first thing she says is, “Tell me my color.”

“ _Jiya!_ ” The weight on her bed shifts, and suddenly Rufus’s familiar warmth is wrapped around her. Jiya clings to him slightly tighter than necessary, and they giggle into each other’s shoulders. 

When they pull apart, Rufus’s eyes are soft. “You heard everything, huh?”

Jiya purses her lips and looks down. “I couldn’t open my eyes, but…yeah.” She squeezes his hand, and shakes her head. “I still want to know my color, though.”

Rufus rubs his head. “Yeah, that was…I was just talking to stay calm, you know. It’s stupid.”

“It’s  _not_  stupid,” Jiya insists. “It’s  _you._  Rufus, you said that you wanted to tell me everything.” She’s swaying slightly as she leans forward. “Well, I want to hear it all.”

“Fine. Lie back, tough guy, and I’ll tell you.” Rufus’s eyes are soft. “Orange.”

“What? I thought Wyatt was orange.”

“He is. But it’s different.” Rufus kisses her and leans back, one hand on Jiya’s knee. “Wyatt’s brighter and more yellow, like a campfire. You’re more reddish, like…burnt umber.” He finds Jiya’s hand and rubs over the knuckles. “It’s actually kind of a puke color?”

And he’s telling the truth, but when Jiya laughs, the room flashes pure gold.


	10. Day 10: Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick, soft garcy + bunker family, set post-series, no warnings needed.

“How do I look?” Flynn asks, appearing behind her in the mirror. Lucy turns to look him over, and has to sit down at the dressing room vanity for a moment, a small breath escaping her.

“Need a minute alone?” Flynn smiles without restraint as he steps into the little room, one hand lifting to brush along her chin. He’s so careful with her, even now.

“The opposite,” Lucy says breathlessly, and runs her hands over his hips. Flynn chuckles and leans down, bending nearly double, to give her the kiss she requests. Lucy cups his clean-shaven, battle-worn face, trying not to smudge the makeup the crew has applied to them both, not to muss his smoothed hair. Still, by the time they pull apart, they’re both gasping. 

Lucy has seen him in a suit before–on missions, at debriefings, at weddings, at funerals–and Flynn certainly looks as sinfully good here as he ever has. But the five years since they came out of hiding have changed him in ways even the familiar uniform cannot hide. He sleeps through the night now, she knows, because she spends the nights curled up on his chest, listening to the steady thunder of his heart. A steady diet has smoothed the wolfish lines of his face, and the scars she has traced so many times are finally beginning to fade. As she leads him out of the dressing room and over to the stage, she can’t help but marvel at the lightness of his hand in hers: the grief-stricken silence no longer hangs around him like a shroud.

“Ready for our medals?” Wyatt’s waiting with the others, and claps Flynn on the shoulder. “We’ve gotten old, waiting for this.”

Flynn has always twinkled when he smiles, Lucy thinks, never more than now. “We’re hardly the same people we were then. Maybe they shouldn’t give them to us after all.”

“Are you kidding?” Rufus looks very spiffy, arm-in-arm with Jiya. “It’s just like _Star Wars._  That's the dream."

Just before they step onstage, Lucy squeezes Flynn’s hand and says with a sigh, “Well, at least you’re right about one thing.”

“Only one?”

“Just the one.” Lucy gives him a secret smile. “You’re right that we’re not who we were, but…” the curtain slides open, and she leans up to murmur into his ear, his aftershave musky around her. “We’re better.”


	11. Day 11: Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because there isn’t enough soft!wyjess+lucy in the world. Set anytime after Jess comes to the bunker, with warnings for cursing and for food issues including meal skipping.

“Okay, I gotta ask.” Lucy jumps slightly at the sound of Jess standing over her. “What’s the deal with not eating?”

“Like I told Wyatt,” Lucy can’t keep the edge of irritation out of her voice, “I’ll eat once I’m done here.”

“Duh. Why do you think he sent me down here to get you?” Lucy looks up, finally, putting as much murder into her eyes as possible, to find Jess leaning up against her book-piled desk and looking thoroughly unimpressed. 

“When I told him to go away,” Lucy says slowly, “I wasn’t telling him to go find  _you._ ”

“You didn’t have to; he would have anyway.” Jess shrugs. “And you should’ve listened to him, for the record. It’s not his fault he’s too used to listening to you.” Lucy’s eyes widen a fraction, but when Jess speaks, there’s no bitterness there. “I get it; you’re his boss, right? But that doesn’t mean you’re always right. Like now.” Jess taps the massive book under Lucy’s nose. “Listen, just hear me out. 

“When I was in high school with Wyatt, I used to reward him for doing decent on tests.” Lucy smiles, barely, at that, and Jess smirks. “I know. But I was determined that we were both going to graduate, and hey, it worked. But when he failed, or while he was studying, I didn’t cut him off completely. That would’ve been bullshit. A reward is something you can live without.” Jess cocks an eyebrow. “Basics aren’t a reward, you know?”

Lucy stares at her for a long moment, her gaze uncertain. “I know.”

“Yeah? Then why haven’t you eaten since yesterday?” Jess side-eyes her. “Flynn noticed.”

 _Damn him._  Lucy takes a deep breath and runs her hands through her hair. “Fine. Just let me finish this chapter and I’ll–”

Jess rolls her eyes. “Look, I didn’t wanna do this, but. I left Wyatt with the soup, and if we don’t get down there soon, it’ll be burned beyond eating.”

Lucy can’t help an incredulous little laugh. “You left Wyatt with the stove?”

“Hey, drastic times.” Cautiously, Jess leans over to put a hand on Lucy’s heavy book, and to slide it away from her. “You gonna join us for dinner?”

For the first time in days, Lucy manages a smile.

As they’re headed down the hallway, she says, “You didn’t really leave Wyatt with the soup, right?”

“Yeah, I’m not stupid. I left it with Flynn.”

“Smart move,” Lucy says, with a cool smile.

Jess elbows her affectionately. “Hey, you’re not the only genius down here anymore.”


	12. Day 12: Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set post-series, in the same timeline as Save the Last Dance because why not. Semi-based off some meta I read about Jewish!Lucy that I can’t find now (and disclaimer that I am neither Catholic nor Jewish so feel free to correct me). Definitely owes a debt to @electricbluebutterflies‘ pregnancy fic. Warnings for cursing, religion, death mentions, and general grief. Written while listening to Belinda Carlisle’s “Heaven Is A Place On Earth.”

It’s her fault for not remembering, really.

Lucy hasn’t left the house in over a week, having suddenly found herself adrift in the utter desolation of her new life. She hadn’t realized how distracting every second in the bunker had been until their time together ended; it’s still weird not to knock before entering her bathroom, or to make a sandwich and to bump up against the realization that no one else will want one too. Every morning, Lucy wakes alone, and with the realization that she will probably do so indefinitely.

Her days are no longer interrupted by alarms or unexpected visitors from the future, which is just as well, really; Carol Preston was many things beneath her polished surface, and Lucy is amused and bewildered to discover that in their final timeline one of those things had been a hoarder. When Lucy had first returned home, the house had been as neat as she’d remembered it, but two months’ work continues to turn up caches of paper scraps, old mementos, broken objects, periodicals, and yes, the occasional snack stash. (She hadn’t even  _known_  that Snickers could go bad, but even in death, her mother continues to surprise her.)

It’s helpful, in a way, to be reminded that her mother was human like the rest of them. Lucy could use a reminder of the collective weakness of their humanity, particularly since she herself is feeling somewhat unreal these days, if not resentful towards the friends she hasn’t seen since they were let go. Rufus and Jiya and Wyatt and Jess have, respectively, disappeared into their little love bubbles, and she supposes she can’t begrudge them their privacy after so long in such close proximity, but  _still._  This silence--it’s like being thrown into the deep end.

She takes a break from digging through the couch cushions (Rittenhouse paranoia extends as far as the zippered insides of a pleather loveseat, apparently) to page through one of her mother’s old books on the Alamo. She sometimes needs reminders that it all really happened, that they did in fact go through what she unfortunately now remembers as the good old days. The book is academic and multilingual and contains any number of passages in untranslated Spanish which she’s been doggedly trying to decipher, but this one is particularly stubborn and while she could just google it she  _would_  like to hear it pronounced to help her budding Spanish comprehension but it’s a Sunday so Wyatt will presumably be watching Kevin which means--

The thought reaches its inevitable conclusion all too easily. It’s not the worst idea she’s ever had. And Flynn is the only other one of their little group that she knows for certain is living alone.

* * *

 

She could call ahead, but that seems too much like shitting before she’s got her pants down, so she digs the scrap of paper with the address on it out of the clothes on the bedroom floor, and takes the car out for a drive.

Flynn, as it turns out, has taken a house up among the hills overlooking the city, which seems appropriate to his hermetical leanings but still makes her a little sad. Lucy supposes there probably wasn’t much left of his old house to go back to, if he had even wanted to revisit that place. Lucy knows she wouldn’t.

It’s a tiny one-story rancher, perched on the leeward side of the mountain, out of the wind. There’s an aging car standing in the driveway, but otherwise the place looks as deserted as it feels. Lucy tries their special knock, remembered from way back in their bunker days, and hopes she hasn’t woken him. “Flynn?”

The curtains in the window shift slightly as something rushes past them. Behind the door, three locks click open, one after the other. 

There’s a pause. A shadow passes in front of the peephole. 

Then three more unlock. 

There are footsteps behind the door, but it doesn’t open. Lucy’s known Flynn long enough to recognize his particular brand of invitation; still, something about the silence of it rings wrong, especially when they haven’t seen each other in months. She hears his voice in her head, however, as clear as if it had been spoken.  _You could come in. If you wanted._

His presence hovers on the other side of the door, and oh, Lucy  _wants._

She peeks around the door to find Flynn folded into a small chair on the other side of the room, dark head buried in his hands. He’s dressed in a crisp black three-piece suit, and Lucy realizes in a flush of heat that she’s left the house in the ratty threads which now compose her daily uniform. Flynn doesn’t look up, however, until she’s crossed the room and knelt beside him. Up close, she can see he’s visibly trembling, knuckles white against his skull. Lucy can’t breathe suddenly, and moves to gently pry his fingers away.

Flynn yields to her easily, but turns his tear-stained face away, refusing to look at her. “Lucy.” His voice is thick. “Why did you come here?”

And okay, that hurts a little, because she had thought they were...friends (yes, that seems safe to say), at the very least. Lucy realizes abruptly that she’s left her book in the car, but that’s quickly forgotten when she looks past the pain filling the room like a smoke. Under a fresh haircut and a shave, Flynn looks wrecked and miserable. There’s a reptilian cast to his eyes that she remembers from that night with David Rittenhouse, and brutally dark circles beneath them. He looks, Lucy realizes horribly, like he had at his worst.

So she cups his scarred cheek and turns him back to her, with some resistance. It takes a long moment for Flynn to really see her.

Finally, he exhales heavily.

“It’s Easter,” he croaks. “I was... _supposed_  to go to Vigil.” 

Lucy sags. She should have called ahead.

And, dammit, she should have remembered. She’s spent enough time with Flynn to glean that he was ( _is?_ ) Catholic, or at least his wife had been. She has no reason to know when Easter is, especially when she hasn’t checked a calendar in weeks, but she knows for a fact that Passover isn’t for another one. 

Flynn’s trembling mouth opens and closes several times, but nothing comes out. His eyes shine in the half-darkness.

“They come to me. My girls. In my dreams.” Flynn’s accent thickens with emotion. “I was going to light a candle for them. Hold vigil. I thought it might quiet them--bring peace to their souls.” He draws a catching breath, and when he looks to Lucy, those eyes seem to find the most vulnerable part of her. “You understand.”

It’s not really a question, and all Lucy can do is wrap her arms around him and gather Flynn’s head into her neck. The freshly-cut edges of his fringe tickle her neck as Flynn nuzzles against her, and suddenly his hands are on her, clinging like she might slip through his fingers. Those fingers are pressing on her back hard enough to leave bruises, but it’s a good pain, it means he’s  _here,_  and Lucy holds him close as they cry into each other, at long last.

Lucy only pulls back when Flynn starts whispering against her shoulder. He’s speaking too quickly and quietly, and not to her, but Lucy still makes out  _dead_  and  _ghosts_  and  _unforgiven,_  and that sends a sharp spike of panic through her.

“Enough.” Lucy cups Flynn’s face and kisses his forehead, all boundaries forgotten. He’s breathing wet and sharply. “Enough.” Her hands slide down his face to his neck, finding the neat military knot of his black tie. Loosening it. “No more, Flynn.” She slips it from around his neck, and he exhales, a broken little sob. Lucy presses their foreheads together and begs him. “No, Flynn;  _no._ ” 

He continues to cry as she slips the suit jacket from his shoulders, unbuttons the starched collar of his dress shirt, undoes his mourning. By the time Lucy’s unbuttoning the cuffs of his dress shirt and sliding his sleeves up his arms, his tears have subsided to sighs. Flynn’s head rests on her shoulder, one hand stroking absently through her hair.

Lucy wants to say,  _They’re in heaven,_  but the words stick in her throat. The dark room, heavy with possibility, seems to close in around them, and Flynn’s hand tightens silently in her hair. Lucy aches with her inability to help him.

“Let’s go outside,” she says instead. 

Flynn follows at her heels her like a shadow into the light. Lucy leads him out, past the unkempt garden, to the ledge overlooking the valley below. They sit there on the stone, leaning up against the trellis and so close to the sky, with him in his dress shirt and her in a ratty top and jean capris and the wind whipping around them, and they wait for something to happen.

What happens is that Flynn looks down at the valley and begins to tremble, so Lucy reaches up to steady him with her touch. Flynn leans into her hand, eyes closed, tears drying on his weathered cheeks. Lucy slides her hand around the nape of his neck and tugs. “Here,” she whispers, and without complaint, Flynn allows her to guide his head down to her lap. 

“There you go.” Flynn stares blankly up, the clouds overhead moving across his open eyes.

“I can see why you’re living up here, you know,” Lucy says gently. “Sometimes when I’m down there, surrounded by all the people we saved, and I think that they’re safe, that they’ll never know...and I just want to  _scream_.” Her face hardens. “But up here...” she traces Flynn’s hairline with her fingertips. “It all seems so far away. And that makes it easier.” She doesn’t look at him as she says, “I’d like living up here, I think.”

“You could live up here. If you wanted.”

Lucy looks down to find that Flynn has come back to himself, and is watching her from behind a careful mask.

Lucy smiles in spite of herself. “Are you offering?”

Flynn hears the mockery and the answer in her tone in equal measure, and snorts softly. 

Lucy is touching his face, seeking out his soft spots. “We’d still have to go down to get food...for doctor’s appointments...”

“There’s a grocery store halfway up.” Flynn’s rumbly voice is gentle. “We’d take care of each other, Lucy. We always have.” His big hand wraps around hers, stills its nervous motion. “You’d never have to go down there again.”

 _Down there._  Lucy lets her eyes trace the contours of the valley, all the way up to the blurred horizon. Her mother’s bones are down there somewhere. So are those of Flynn’s wife and daughter, and those of the many Rittenhouse agents they’ve killed, and every person they ever met on their many trips to the past, for that matter. All in the ground; all, Lucy hopes, at rest.

She sits there for a long time, with this strange, beautiful man’s head resting in her lap, and the Easter bells ring out over the sun-soaked hills below, and the morning light pierces through the trellis and lies like a warm hand over her cheek, and the wind lifts the hairs on the back of her neck and whispers, once and for all:

_You are forgiven._

“Lucy...are you...” she looks down to find Flynn watching her, his brow furrowed in concern. Her cheeks are wet. “All right?”

“Yes; of course.” Lucy swipes a hand over her eyes, but at that moment a brilliant gust of sun-soaked wind roars up out of the valley and rushes over her, running through her hair and drying the tears on her cheeks. A laugh rips from her as she understands. “It’s just the wind.”


	13. Day 13: Soft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For once I manage to work whump and self-care into one ficlet?? Poor Flynn. Set in the same AU as The Most Dangerous Game, and slightly before that fic. Warnings for drugging and general dehumanization.

The drugs they use to sedate him restrain Flynn as easily as any chain. He rises out of a numb gray fog to find that he’s unable to relieve the ache in his freezing joints by moving them even an inch. 

The cold of the warehouse has crept into his bones, particularly his bad shoulder, which screams where it’s crammed up against the steel. Flynn’s considering crying out in order to be punished with another dose–even forced slumber is better than this knawing agony–when he hears voices, and tries to hold himself still.

“Miss Preston, you can’t keep coming in here.” Flynn recognizes the guard’s voice, but not its tone: uncertain, almost deferential. 

“I’ve  _never_  come here, as far as you’re concerned. Got it?” 

If Flynn were a dog like they say he is, his ears would prick up. That voice is new: a woman’s, maybe, unfamiliar, commanding, soft as fabric on a blade.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Footsteps approach his cage. Flynn can’t lift his head from where it’s buried in his knees, but he can see a pair of sensible heels stop before the cage door. He can hear when it unlocks.

The pain in his cramping shoulder is unbearable. Flynn trembles with the effort of holding still.

Then a hand wraps around his trembling shoulder, hard enough that Flynn can feel the heartbeat through her fingers. “Hold on just a little longer.” That voice, that hand, smooths over his raw nerves, and against his will, Flynn’s muscles loosen a fraction. “Here.”

The hand leaves his shoulder, only to be quickly replaced by the touch of something softer, sliding across his bare back, draping over his shoulders. It’s light and soft and warm.  _A blanket,_  Flynn thinks, and in a tearful rush of gratitude wonders what he’s done to deserve this.

“I can’t get you out of here soon enough,” the woman whispers as she locks him back into his cage.

By the time Flynn gets back from his run, the blanket is gone. But when he’s once again curled up against the steel, that voice and its promises slip over him softly as velvet, and for once Flynn falls into sleep long before the drugs take him.


	14. Day 14: Smell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nice shortish ficlet, post-series, wherein Lucy has to recover from a house fire. Generally lovey and ship-free, with warnings for hospitals, cigarettes, and injury and alcohol mentions.

Lucy doesn’t know who pulls her from the house fire, only that the hands are strong and sure. She’s bouncing against a firm chest as the night air rushes past her, and Lucy realizes dimly that her rescuer is running with her, rough breaths puffing out somewhere above her head. She’s curious, but her eyes are full of ash. Lucy nuzzles into the chest, seeking identity, but all she can smell is smoke.

She drifts through the darkness while her eyes heal. Smoke gives way to the harsh scour of disinfectant, and Lucy thinks of the years her mother spent lying alone in the hospital, and wonders if she was trapped in her head like this. This smell could drive someone mad, she thinks, and fear creeps into her heart.

She surfaces into waking when they unwrap her eyes.

Lucy’s first sight is a glimpse of Wyatt asleep in the chair beside her bed, seconds before Rufus and Jiya wrap her up in a crushing hug. Lucy buries her face in their necks and breathes in the two familiar scents, familiar and welcome as safety. Rufus, ever-diligent about laundry, smells of floral detergent over the ever-present undertone of motor oil. Jiya is fresh hair dye and toothpaste and sandalwood shampoo, and they both smell faintly of sweat, and Lucy knows the soft hands she’s been feeling these three days are theirs. She’s laughing into their shoulders, and smells tears.

Rufus and Jiya stay close, filling up the room with their presence, their smells, as they days pass and she heals. Although her eyes still hurt and she keeps them closed most of the time, Lucy smells the Mountain Dew and Doritos they pass back and forth while they play video games over her lap.

They have to leave at night, but Wyatt never does, and when the smell of disinfectant is too strong he spoon-feeds her lime jell-o. Wyatt wears AXE body spray and smells comfortingly of whiskey, and when his stubble brushes her forehead when he thinks she’s sleeping, Lucy tries not to give it away with a smile.

Her eyes heal, and her room fills. Denise smells of black coffee and a peppermint perfume Michelle bought her to celebrate the end of the bunker days, and she wears it every day. Connor’s awkward hug carries the smell of expensive cologne. Denise brings her flowers, and Connor brings a personalized diffuser specifically formulated for calming effect. (It’s confiscated immediately, of course, but the smell still lingers for days.) 

Jess smells like stale pretzels, but her hugs are warm.

A week in, she gets a plain white card that smells of gunpowder and lilies. A chill runs down her spine, but Lucy still smiles thinly.

_Like a fire could kill you when I couldn’t?_

_Heal quick, princess._

_EW_

Every night, Lucy smells night air and the dust of the city. It takes her days to learn why.

Lucy wakes to the twin smells of smoke and Flynn’s distinctive brand of liquor. There’s a towering figure in black standing on the fire escape outside her window, blocking out the moon. She knows Flynn hasn’t smoked since the depths of Sao Paolo, and for a moment, she worries that something worse has happened.

But she smells before she sees that that Wyatt hasn’t moved from his spot beside her bed, but has slumped over the bed and is fast asleep on her legs. His snore is a comfort.

A gust of wind catches the tails of Flynn’s longcoat, blowing night air and the hint of smoke into the room. Flynn’s silhouette shifts as he glances over his shoulder, and Lucy feigns sleep. After a moment, the glowing tip of Flynn’s cigarette turns back to the city.

Lucy closes her eyes. She doesn’t need to see to know her family is with her: to hear Wyatt’s gentle snore and the crackle of Flynn’s cigarette, to feel Wyatt’s chest rise and fall against her knees. The cool wind rushes over her skin, smoothing away the heat of the fire, firm as the hands that had carried her out of it, carrying the essence of the man watching over her by night.


	15. Day 15: Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick Connor drabble that got away from me a bit. Set post-series, background riya, no warnings except implied canon death/s.

He holds a little too tight, he knows, but given that he sees his sister and her family little more than once a year, Connor believes that he can be excused a little familial indulgence. 

All the same, he’s made well aware of his awkwardness with genuine affection when his young nephew whines, “You hug  _so tight._ ” 

Connor lets go a little quicker than he’d like, but covers it with a wink. “Just practicing.” 

It’s an answer he’s well used to giving, and one that in his adolescence had attracted jokes about a future girlfriend or wife; as the decades passed, however, and it became richly apparent that he was not about to bring a girl–or anyone, for that matter–home to mother, his repeated use of the phrase had begun to garner strange® looks. Connor receives one now from his sister, but he waves it off. There’s so much she’ll never know.

 _Save the hugs for when I bring it back safe,_  Emma had laughed, just before stepping into the  _Lifeboat._  Connor had learned that day, that of her final mission, that the opportunity to hold someone was not inevitable; what  _was_  inevitable was that opportunity coming to an end. 

As it has for Emma. For Stanley. For Anthony. For his mother, and for so many others. For Rufus, for a moment. For Jiya, almost but not quite.

So Connor hugs them as tight as he wants to now, and lets his various families chalk it up to the sentimentality of age. And if they question, the answer is always ready on his lips:  _Just practicing_. It’s always been easier to hide the emotion behind the clever words, and he  _is_ , technically, practicing, even if it’s not what they believe. He’s practicing telling them while there’s still time, practicing learning how to show it, practicing counting his blessings…

…practicing, learning, how to let them go.


	16. Day 16: Giving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While realistically Emma would probably have been offed long before the NBC showrunners thought to give her a redemption arc, I’ve been playing around recently with an S3 AU where she ends up willingly with the team because Flynn wasn’t enough goddammit I need more. 
> 
> So. Mild Emma whump, Emma/Lucy, background everything, set in an imaginary post-S2, no warnings necessary.

Emma’s been slinking around the safehouse so subtly these two weeks, one could almost forget she’s there. 

 _Almost._  Flynn’s pepper cakes disappear from the kitchen a little faster than they had before, and their missions rely on slightly more accurate information these days, and on rare occasions Lucy glimpses a flash of red hair disappearing around a corner. It makes her feel somewhere between watched and shunned, but it’s almost better than Lucy had expected when she’d dubiously agreed to let Emma join the team.

 _Like how Wyatt felt when we brought in Flynn_ , Lucy thinks with a prickle one morning, watching a bare heel vanish down the hall. Except that Flynn had immediately settled in as “the creepy uncle,” as Rufus had put it, and had joined their planning meetings even when he had nothing to contribute. By contrast, Emma doesn’t show up to planning sessions even when she’s needed (though Lucy suspects she’s relaying information through the more forgiving Rufus), and in fact seems to be going about barefoot in order to move more quietly. She’s rather like a skittish cat.

Or a woman in the attic, Lucy realizes, the first night she hears it.

Their current safehouse has a record number of bedrooms, which Lucy had originally taken as a blessing. Now, some sleepless hours into another long night, she’s realized why they all looked at her so strangely when she claimed her own bedroom. It figures she’d be the last to know that she’s gotten too used to sharing a bed to sleep alone.

Then Lucy rolls onto the far side of the bed, directly under an aging heat vent currently turning the room to an icebox, and catches the strangled sob above. 

Lucy lies perfectly still, holding her breath and listening, trying to be sure. She wouldn’t have believed that Emma  _could_  cry, if she hadn’t heard it herself, but there’s no denying the broken little sound that comes next. Lucy could snort if the naked agony there didn’t ache her. 

She wants to ignore it–and she could, easily enough, just roll over to the other side of the bed, out of earshot of Emma’s crying. But she doesn’t, and feels sick for it.

The next wail tears through Lucy like a lightning bolt. It figures that Emma doesn’t cry soft and gentle, but rather in ragged, drawn-out wails. It sounds as though she’s trying to stifle herself in a pillow. It sounds–pitiful.

Lucy tells herself that she needs to see it. That’s the only reason she’s propelled out of bed, and the only reason she storms out of her cold room and down the equally chilly hallway. It has nothing to do with her bed being too large, or her arms being empty.

The rest of the team has occupied other bedrooms along this floor of the safehouse, and Lucy considers-but-not-really walking into one of them instead. Any of the others would accept her presence gladly, or at least less grumpily than she expects Emma will. But none of them need her, and she’s not ready to admit how much that hurts.

 _I must be a masochist,_  Lucy thinks as she climbs the creaking stairs.  _I must be crazy. This is–ridiculous._

 _Why are you doing this?_  she asks herself, stopped in front of the attic door.

The sob inside sounds clear as day, and Lucy knows the answer in her bones.

If Lucy had thought  _her_  room was small, it’s got nothing on the attic chamber. She draws a shaky breath as she slips inside, but Emma’s sharp eyes upon her remind Lucy not to show weakness here.

Emma gives a raw little laugh. “What, come to watch me break down?”

“Nope.” Lucy clicks her tongue as she approaches the bed. “Come to help.”

Emma sneers, but her bare throat is working in a way that suggests she’s on the precipice of breaking. She lies on her side in a pool of yellow light cast by a streetlight outside the attic window, the blanket kicked down to her knees although the room is close to freezing, shuddering from head to toe. Emma’s red hair is a messy halo around her, and shining in the yellow light as brightly as her eyes are.

This part is not like it was with Flynn. Lucy didn’t see him cry until months after their first night together, and it took even longer for her to understand the full extent of his need.

This situation is clearer, possibly.

“You think you can  _help_  me,” Emma whispers, her voice thin with disgust. Lucy looks down at the ruined woman on the bed, and doesn’t flinch away. This anger is familiar ground for both of them. And Lucy has seen it in others, who sleep more soundly, tonight.

“I think I can help both of us, actually.” It’s the first time she’s ever spoken it aloud, the way their distinctive angers reflect each other like mirrors in the darkness. “But I’ll leave if you want.” She says the words as easily as she’s capable, and tries not to make them sound like a threat.

Emma flops onto her back, making space in the bed. The motion draws a sharp breath from her throat, but she doesn’t say anything more.

Lucy eases into the bed slowly, giving Emma time to kick her out if she changes her mind. But Emma remains perfectly still, staring up at the ceiling and swallowing over and over again. When Lucy pulls the blanket up over both of them, Emma turns her head away, and Lucy thinks she sobs.

“Why are you here, Princess?” Emma whispers. _  
_

“Like I said.” Lucy’s voice is silk on a blade. “Because you need me.” _And I need to be needed._ She can’t admit it to herself in daylight, but here, in the safety of the worst person she’s allowed into her spaces, she feels she could admit anything, even the worst of herself.

But there’s no time to think of that when Emma is audibly weeping now, her choked-off little wails filling the silence. Lucy shushes her, a little more sharply than she means, and Emma’s head snaps around towards her and hisses through her teeth. For a long moment, they watch each other across eight inches of cold air. 

Then Lucy reaches out to slide an arm beneath Emma’s soft, warm neck. 

Emma’s eyes are red-rimmed and emerald in the dim light, and Lucy thinks again how catlike she is, how uncertain, how trusting.

Tortuously slow, Lucy draws that stiff body against her, and Emma jerks her chin up defiantly even as her jaw begins to tremble. Lucy is lying slightly higher up on the bed, and she looks down at Emma, and hooks a finger under her chin.

Emma’s lashes flutter, and those green eyes flicker to her lips.

 _I could kiss her_ , Lucy knows, and Emma might let her. There’s a terrible kind of power to that, but it’s all wrong. Emma is all ice and sharp nails and rippling muscle that could all-too-easily throw any of them up against a wall, and when Lucy wants her (and she  _has_  wanted; she may as well admit that too), she wants the steel, not this shuddering live wire. It’s not right.

So Lucy slides her free hand into Emma’s hair, cradling her head. It’s a controlling move, and Emma tenses, but Lucy just tucks Emma’s head gently against her chest. They lie there for a long moment, gasping softly, as the tension eases.

The moment has nearly passed when Emma’s free hand wraps around Lucy’s back and slides up to press between her shoulderblades, digging in with sharp, desperate nails. With her mouth in Emma’s soft hair, it’s hard for Lucy to hide how that takes her breath away. 

She covers it by pressing a kiss into the fragrant hair part at her lips. There’s a huff against her chest–a laugh, maybe–and Emma’s hair tickles her collarbone.

“If you think this means I’m buying any of that adopted family crap Rufus’s always spouting,” Emma mutters, “Forget it, now.”

“Shut up, will you…?” Lucy mutters without opening her eyes. “If anything, I’m doing this for me.”

“Yeah? How’s that, Princess?”

Lucy feels safe enough to admit in a growl, “My bed was cold.”

The implications of that hover in the air for a long moment. Then Emma says uncertainly, “This…never happened.”

“What never happened?” 

Lucy smiles in the darkness, and feels Emma’s warm mouth curl against her chest.

* * *

They’re wondering aloud in the planning meeting the next morning where Rittenhouse will strike next when a voice from the curtained window drawls, “New Orleans, obviously,” and they all jump. The curtain sweeps aside, revealing Emma perched on the windowsill like a cat in sunlight, her impeccably coiffed red hair shining in the sun.

Wyatt crosses his arms over his chest. “You know what they say about gingers, right?”

Emma smirks right back. “You want my information or not, soldier?”

When the meeting is finished and they’re all dispersing, Emma approaches where Lucy is packing up books, without ever looking at her directly. 

Lucy duly refuses to look up until Emma deigns to clear her throat.

“This isn’t exactly my strength.” Emma’s voice is low. “But I guess I owe you something now. Like an apology, maybe.”

“ _Maybe?_ ” Lucy snorts, but when she looks up, Emma ducks her head in a way that speaks to a deeper hurt than they’re willing to acknowledge. Lucy swallows and goes back to stacking books. “Let’s just forget it. Sound good?”

“Fine by me,” Emma says, her voice a little too light. “Thanks.”

“No need to thank me.” Lucy hoists the pile of books into her arms. She means to just walk away, but can’t keep her eyebrows from wiggling as she adds, “Nothing happened, remember?”

“Oh, I remember.” Emma unloads half the books from Lucy’s arms without asking, the hint of a smirk playing around her freckled features. “Tell me where we’re taking these?”

As Lucy sets off with Emma walking behind, she says softly over her shoulder, “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, Princess.” Emma has imitated her mockingly before, but this time there’s an affectionate edge to it. “I’ve done nothing to earn it, right?”

That’s not right, Lucy knows. Someone gave someone  _something,_  but the more she turns that night over in her head, Emma’s warmth following her like summer sunlight, the less certain she is as to who was helping whom.


	17. Day 17: Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact it’s absolutely criminal that 2.01 shows there’s a bench press in the bunker but no one is ever shown using it?? I’ve decided to rectify the situation immediately, complete with Baker!Flynn and the goofy familial murdervision we all deserve (because Jiya definitely called Flynn “Dad” by accident more than once). Set shortly after Chinatown (the good version where both Rufus and Flynn come back obviously), background riya and garcy, with warnings for smoking mention and use of “ps*cho” as a derogatory term.

Jiya’s shoulders are screaming by the time she’s begun her third set, but she tries not to betray herself, because Flynn has been puttering around the kitchen behind her for some thirty minutes. They’ve all been living in such close proximity for so long that Jiya can pick him out by the heavy footsteps and smoker’s breathing.

It’s a testament to her over-observant brain that Jiya recognizes him at all, considering how little time Flynn spends in the common room, even now. Although, now that she considers it, he must spend hours on the various baked goods that appear in the cabinets on a weekly basis. Jiya herself has chosen this particular hour of the night to bench-press in the hope of avoiding her sleepy colleagues. Flynn seems to share her insomnia, or perhaps her dislike for intrusive questions.

So she’s none too pleased to hear his heavy footsteps pause behind her head. Jiya can hear him chewing on something.

After a long moment of hesitation, Flynn grunts in his particular way, “Hands.”

“I know you’re still a little new to this whole thing, but people normally use a few more words to communicate,” Jiya says. “Unless you’re, just, like, observing.”

“Your shoulders must hurt,” Flynn says, shortly, from above her.

“I think they’re supposed to.” It comes out through her teeth as Jiya presses the bar high again.

Flynn clucks disapprovingly. “Not like this.” She hears him lumber closer, and a callused hand pauses under the bar. “May I?”

At this point Jiya’s grinding her jaw to keep from tearing up. A hiss slips out between her teeth, and she tries not to sound panicked when she bites out, “ _Sure._ ”

Flynn’s hand looks around the bar instantly, taking some of the weight off her, and he leans over to set his half-eaten muffin down next to her head before taking the bar in both hands and helping her lift it back onto the pins.

“Thanks.” Jiya tries to keep the bitterness of defeat out of her voice. She moves to sit up, only to have Flynn’s big hand cover her shoulder–not in a pin, but in a suggestion.

“Giving up so easy?”

“Like I have a choice?” Jiya snaps. Her shoulders ache when she lifts her arms to cover her face. “It hurts too much.”

“But it doesn’t  _have_  to,” Flynn says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Jiya hears him move away. “I’ll give you a moment to catch your breath.”

She sits up on the flat bench while Flynn crosses to the kitchen cabinet. He returns carrying a glass of water, a chocolate muffin, and a towel to wipe her head. “Have a drink. Then we’ll discuss proper form.” He kneels down in front of Jiya to put it all into her hands.

“I didn’t know that homemade pastry was a part of proper form,” Jiya smirks.

“It is if you’re doing it right. Besides, there’s protein in there.”

“Yeah, right,” Jiya scoffs as she takes a bite. The reaction is instantaneous. Her eyes blow wide in delight, and she sputters through a mouthful, “Holy _crap_ , Flynn!”

He tries to feign offense, but there’s laughter dancing in his pale eyes. “Well, if you don’t like it, I can just–”

“No.” Jiya holds it away. “ _Mine._ ” Flynn chuckles and reaches for his own muffin.

He waits until she’s occupied with a mouthful to add suddenly: “And not for nothing, but what you don’t know about proper form could fill several books.”

Jiya’s eyes narrow, but the effect is somewhat diminished by the fact that her mouth is full of muffin. “Like what?”

“Finish eating, and I’ll show you.”

Two glasses of water later, Jiya is back on the bench, with a sugar rush and as unexpected jolt of protein ( _bastard_ ) racing through her veins. Flynn stands behind her head, one hand on the bar so she can’t lift it yet, giving instructions.

“When you lift, keep everything flat–your feet on the ground, your back on the bench. The only thing you should lift is your chest.”

“Yeah, and maybe also the bar…”

Flynn sounds exasperated and amused in equal measure. “I wouldn’t mock your spotter.”

“Why, because it’s not  _good form?_ ”

“Because I”m holding fifty pounds of weight over your head, and I’m liable to slip.”

“Psycho,” Jiya mutters affectionately, and there’s a sudden silence from above her.

Glancing up, she sees that the sparkle has gone out of Flynn’s eyes, and he’s vanished behind a cold mask. Wyatt’s familiar words come back to her, first spoken out of Flynn’s earshot but repeated many times since his arrival:  _he’s a_ total  _psycho._

“I–I’m sorry, Flynn, I didn’t mean–”

“I know.” Flynn huffs a quick breath, but it’s not convincing. “Now, as for your hands–”

“Flynn.” Jiya puts her hand on his, on the bar, and he freezes. “You know we don’t think of you like that anymore. Right?”

Flynn gives a wet little laugh, and Jiya is suddenly all too aware of how she found him: alone in the kitchen, baking muffins that the whole team will eat later, long after Flynn has retreated to his room. Although unwanted questions prick her like needles, for Flynn they carry more than a hint of threat.  _Psycho._

“I won’t ask what you think of me now,” he says weakly.

“You’re part of the team, now,” Jiya insists. She rubs Flynn’s knuckles. “ _I_ know that.”

The last time she’d seen him employ that serpentine nod, it had been directed towards Lucy. At the time, however, Jiya hadn’t been close enough to see the emotion behind the mask, to realize he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Flynn steps away, a certain heaviness slowing his steps, and in a flash of panic Jiya blurts out, “What were you saying about my hands?”

Flynn’s footsteps pause, and he says, “You were holding them too far apart.”

“So?”

“So you’re doing work you don’t need to,” Flynn says icily.

JIia replies with equal acid. “Don’t tell me what to do if you’re not going to show me how to fix it.”

The air between them crackles, and for a moment Jiya thinks she’s pushed too far. Then Flynn growls, “Fine,” and returns to set his hands on hers, sliding them in on the bar. “Your hands should be over your shoulders, like this. And your elbows should not be flared like this. Here–” Gentle yet firm, Flynn moves her elbows closer to her body. “You’ll impinge your shoulders like that.”

“Right.” Jiya tries a test lift, and when her shoulders don’t protest, a sunshine smile breaks across her face. 

She thinks she can hear Flynn smile when he says, “Better?”

“Don’t sound so smug,” Jiya snorts, but she lifts the bar up and down several times, enjoying the eased balance on the weight. “I’m the one doing the heavy lifting.”

“Well, do it a little slower. Inertia will not improve with practice.”

“Brave words from the non-engineer,” Jiya mutters.

“And get a spotter,” Flynn calls from across the room. “I won’t always be here to catch the bar for you.”

“Yeah, Dad, whatever.”

It just pops out.

Flynn sputters, and for a moment Jiya’s so stunned that her grip on the bar loosens just enough for it to roll out of her hands. She fumbles and catches it before it crushes her throat, but it’s still far too low for her to lift to safety. She’s struggling to push it off her when Flynn reappears over her in an instant, wraps both hands around the bar, and lifts it out of her hands and back up to the pins. “All right?”

Jiya throws one arm over her eyes, gasping for breath. “Just dying of humiliation, thanks.”

“What was it Rufus called me? Ah, yes,  _the creepy uncle,_ ” Flynn observes gleefully. “Just think how happy he’ll be to hear I’ve moved up the ranks.”

Jiya lowers her arm to glare up at him. “Never. Speak. Of this. Again.”

Flynn frowns. “I really don’t think that’s any way to speak to your father, young lady.”

“I  _will_  kill you.”

“No offense, but your death visions haven’t been terribly right lately…”

Jiya sits up, cutting her eyes at him. “Not a prophecy. A  _promise_.”

Flynn scoffs. “Like you could live without the granola I make every week? Face the facts, Jiya.” He crosses to lean against the kitchen counter, helping himself to another muffin. “I’m the glue that holds this team together.” Flynn takes a bite.

Lucy chooses that moment to enter the room. Between her tousled hair and the sleep robe she’s clutching to her, she resembles the mistress of a house awakened at some ungodly hour by unpleasant news. “What are you two doing up?”

“What are  _you?_ ” Jiya says, frowning.

“Turns out losing and then resurrecting one of my best friends isn’t exactly conducive to a good night’s sleep, so…” Lucy gestures vaguely. The circles under her eyes are very dark. “I thought, some tea…”

Flynn has been frozen since Lucy entered, but her approach seems to reboot his stalled brain and he clears his throat and says with an unfair amount of dignity: “Lucy. Would you like a chocolate muffin?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Lucy breathes, and unconsciously steps closer. Their hands brush as Flynn hands her the muffin, and she and Flynn gaze at each other, lost in their own little world. Jiya shifts awkwardly, and wonders if she and Rufus were that oblivious at their start.

“Good choice,” Jiya says flatly, after a long beat, and Lucy and Flynn step apart, blinking. “They’re better warm.”

“Thank you,” Lucy mutters, and reaches for the muffin still in Flynn’s hand. 

“No, let me,” Flynn says softly, and they stare at each other for another long moment.

Jiya frowns.

When Lucy has shuffled back to her room with tea and water and two (!) muffins, Jiya rises from the bench, flipping her towel over her shoulder. Flynn still stands at the counter, staring down the hall after Lucy, and Jiya snaps her towel at him as she goes past. “Guess we know who’s  _really_  the glue here…”

Flynn stares at her stupidly. “What?”

“You’re stuck on her, Flynn. Duh.” Flynn looks away with an embarrassed huff, and Jiya laughs, patting his arm before heading to bed herself.

“Have a good night,  _Dad,_ ” she tosses over her shoulder, her laugh ringing down the hall.


	18. Day 18: Writing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In news that should surprise nobody, dark!Lucy is terrible at taking care of herself. Written after a suggestion from @electricbluebutterflies on tumblr to continue this fic. Set immediately post-Chinatown, with canon-typical warnings for death mentions and guns and gun violence. Written while listening to “Morningside” by Sara Bareilles.

_What do you want me to do?,_  he’d written, and slipped the note under her door. Seven words, and he’d hoped it was enough.

The note had come back with three sentences.

_Help me_

Flynn disables the alarm that night, and as he follows Lucy through the starry forest beyond the bunker, she reaches back without looking to take his right hand in in hers and pull him close. It is a catalyst, and Flynn’s warmth and steadiness draws inevitably closer to her cold trembling, as surely as a chemical reaction reaches for equilibrium. He ends up walking bare inches behind Lucy, half-breathing down her neck, while Lucy’s hand holds tight to the hand he’s got on his gun. She’s plenty warm by the time they

_destroy them._

set the Rittenhouse base on fire from the inside and pick off the survivors. Lucy strides through the smoldering ruins like a conquering queen, gun in hand and Flynn at her back, but there’s no need for either. It is done

_For Rufus,_

when they blow up the  _Mothership_  somewhere outside of Vegas. Flynn holds Lucy behind him, sheltering her from the heat of the explosion while her heat presses into his back, cleansing as a crucible as his sins go up in flames. The next day Lucy buys them sunscreen. They are have entered the desert

_for Amy,_

when Lucy’s phone starts to ring and she asks Flynn to pull the stolen car over to the side of the road. When she returns, after forty long minutes in the desert, Lucy’s eyes are red and the phone is gone, but she’s smiling,

_for your wife and daughter_

and there’s a pale band of skin on Flynn’s finger where his ring used to be, and for once they believe in safety for themselves,

_and for everyone else they took everything from._

and when Lucy finally falls asleep, on a couch in the lobby of a seedy hotel somewhere no one will find them, Flynn is there to guard her, and to be sure she doesn’t cry herself to sleep again. When he retrieves the original paper from the pocket where he’s kept it all this time, its folds are beginning to wear thin. All the same, Flynn studies the words of the final sentence long enough to commit them to memory. It’s no journal, but it’ll have to do. Lucy stirs in her sleep, and Flynn instinctively trails his fingertips across her temple.

 _You and I will make everything better._  

Seven words, and it’s enough. He understands.


	19. Day 19: Photographs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy some angsty wyjess photograph pain, featuring, as always with these two, A Baby. Mild warnings for panic attacks and violence mentions.

By the time the  _Lifeboat_  touches down in the present, Wyatt’s panic has mellowed into full-body trembling, and he’s trying and failing to hide his wan face against his shoulder. Rufus and Flynn politely stand close around him as they exit the Lifeboat, helping to hide his face so that he can slip away if necessary, and Wyatt shoots them a shaky nod of gratitude.

Lucy notices his condition instantly, of course; she’s always had a finely tuned instinct for his vulnerability, but even though it no longer hurts that they’re not together, Wyatt still aches vaguely at the distance Lucy keeps. It’s not so much that he wants  _her,_  particularly, as that he wants  _someone_  to hold him, someone to wipe the tears from his cheeks with gentle fingertips the way she used to. If he had that someone, however, he wouldn’t need that picture of him and Jess.

Which he doesn’t have any more.

Flynn hovers nearby, his dark understanding hanging in the air like a thundercloud, and he explains as much when Lucy turns to him to ask  _what happened._

“Oh, Wyatt…” He’d thought he had a handle on this thing, but Wyatt’s proved horribly wrong when, as Lucy reaches out a hand to him and  _hesitates_ , a sobbing hiccup crawls its way out of him. Wyatt flattens it between his teeth, almost but not quite, and glances away quickly, swiping a hand over his watering eyes. 

“It’s stupid, right?” he says thickly, and tries to force a laugh. It comes out cracked and hollow. “…Panic attack over a damn picture…” 

He’s pushing past Lucy, intent on hiding his weakest self from them as quickly as possible, when she asks with awful innocence, “You don’t have any other pictures?”

That brings him up short, and Wyatt shakes his spinning head, trying to shake the memory free from his fevered brain. “No, I…” He can’t look at them. “They were left in the my old room. Which is probably cleared out by this point. So.”

This time, when Wyatt swallows hard, turns, and stumbles away, no one calls after him.

He’s most afraid of forgetting her, really. Not Jess as she is now–he sees enough of her when they run up against each other on missions–hell, maybe too much–but Jess as she was then, and as he believes ( _has_  to believe) she could be again. If he forgets, he might start accepting this, and Wyatt isn’t prepared to do that. If he forgets, he might stop fighting for her. Jess–the  _real_ Jess–deserves better than that.

The first time it happens, Wyatt isn’t sure he’s not hallucinating it, but the facts of the situation are not complicated. During a Rittenhouse shootout, Jess brushes up against him–without driving a knife into his ribs, or anything–and when she’s gone, there’s a photo in his pocket. Her face is unreadable.

Alone in the safehouse later, Wyatt studies the photo until he’s sure it’s burned into his brain. They’re younger here, less scarred by battle, but sun-drenched and beaming, and Wyatt knows in that moment that Jess remembers their honeymoon. Maybe not the same as him, but still. In every timeline, they share this moment.

Then he scribbles onto the bottom of the Polaroid,  _Come home, Jess_ , and the next time they’re holding each other at gunpoint, is careful to drop it in front of her. 

It’s not a peace offering, but it’s close enough.

The next photo is left in a Rittenhouse base abandoned not long before they arrive. Wyatt remembers this one, too, which he can only take as a good sign. It’s dark and blurry, taken by one of their friends–Dave, maybe–and Wyatt recognizes himself, down on one knee and karaoke mic in hand, up on stage and drunkenly serenading Jess. She’s somewhere in the darkness of that audience, he knows. And he  _knows_  she’d been smiling; he could see her shaking her head from up on stage. He’d seen it.

The back of the photo has a note scribbled in Jess’s sharp, neat handwriting. Military.

_Hey, you first._

In spite of himself, Wyatt smiles.

The pictures keep coming. Jess at work in the bar; Jess grinning wickedly as she kicks his ass at Pac-Man while he’d been too busy staring at her like an idiot; Jess with her head thrown back, belting off-key in the passenger seat of his car. Some old, some newer, all recognizable. All taken by Wyatt. Maybe she’s trying to stump him, but Wyatt doesn’t think so. There isn’t a moment here he doesn’t recognize.

Until, after a long absence, there is. 

The confusion lasts barely a moment, because the soft blue eyes peering up at him out of that infant face are distinctly familiar; Wyatt has seen them teary, red, bloody, in the mirror, every morning. 

He’s shaking as he turns the photo over to read the note.

_she’s ~~yours~~  ours_

He looks again. The baby has Jess’s chin, that much is already clear, the stubborn set of her mouth, and the oversized ears Wyatt recognizes from his mother’s side. Their child is all the best of them both. She is  _his,_  she is Jess’s, she is–perfect.

Wyatt stops giving the photos back after that. He can’t bear to stop looking at his little girl, and Jess seems to understand, because she supplies him with more: their daughter eating, sleeping, laughing. There are no notes on these photos, nor is there a need for them.

Wyatt doesn’t keep the photos in an album any more. He’s learned his lesson about how quickly such precious things can be lost.

Rather, the photos–of Jess, of Wyatt, of the little life slowly growing up between them–sit in a neat stack in his outermost pocket, where Jess could reach them if she wanted. Where she  _will_  reach for them eventually, he prays, when she finally reaches for his hand, when she’s ready to come home.


	20. Day 20: Achieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a request: "I saw this prompt-Character being ridiculously proud of their best friend and showing them off and cheering them on way more than necessary-and WANT something with it. Pretty please? Either Flufus or Murdervision would be wonderful."
> 
> Set in a modern AU where Flynn’s family dies in a car accident, and Jiya has not (yet?) been hired by Mason Industries. Mild warnings for alcohol and mentions of grief and death. Definitely owes a debt to @aparticularbandit for helping me brainstorm Star Trek nicknames. Hope you enjoy :)

Jiya is rehearsing her speech backstage for the thousandth time, half on the edge of panic, when her phone buzzes with Flynn’s distinctive vibration. Jiya had decided long ago that there’s no one she’d rather have as her emergency contact, so Flynn has been permitted to break through her Do Not Disturb filter entirely. She hasn’t changed his contact name since they met five years ago, when in a rare fit of humor, she’d given the tall, cold, dark-haired man with the restrained emotions the contact name of  _Spock._  

_Break a leg._

Rolling her eyes, Jiya types back:  _Don’t curse me._

_You’re that nervous?_

_We’ll see in five minutes when I forget my whole speech up there._

_Ignore your audience; they’re idiots. Focus on me._

_Where are you sitting?_

_Standing. At the back._

_What? Why?_

_It was the only place with room._  Then, as though he can hear her heart speed up at that:  _Relax. If something goes wrong, I will take out the witnesses for you._

Jiya snorts.  _My hero._

_Keep an eye out for me. I’ll be clapping the loudest._

Someone calls her name, as though from very far away. Jiya straightens her blazer and strides out onto the stage.

The lights are blinding from the first, and as Jiya launches into her presentation, she can’t make out the front row, let alone Flynn standing in the back of the theater. But when she hits her first joke, the gentle audience laughter is run through with a gruff, familiar chuckle. It’s mildly embarrassing that Flynn knows where all her jokes are–she’d practiced her speech on his dispassionate mask for weeks–and is sure to laugh the loudest every time, but the knowledge of his unwavering support helps her gain confidence, and soon enough the speech pours out of her in an enthusiastic rush.

True to his word, she can hear Flynn clap at the end.

They’ve got a tech hand down in the house to bring a mic around so that she can answer a few questions. Jiya regrets not being able to choose them when a familiar voice asks innocently, “How long did it take you to complete this project?”

Jiya tries not to visibly grind her teeth. The bastard wants her to take the credit. Jiya is fully aware that this sort of theory would normally have taken years to develop, largely due to its sheer brain-bending complexity.

She laughs nervously, hoping that Flynn can read the subtle  _screw-you_  in her tone. “Not nearly as long as it should have; only a little under a year.” There’s a smattering of gasps and polite applause, and Jiya can’t stop a smile from creeping across her face.

On the podium, her phone buzzes beside her notes.  _Sorry for that one. I couldn’t resist._

 _Apology accepted_ , Jiya types without looking down.  _But drinks are on you tonight._

Flynn writes back immediately.  _Oh, I insist._

At the conference cocktail party that evening, Jiya settles on a whiskey sour, but she hardly gets a chance to drink it. Not only do strangers keep approaching to congratulate her (which is nice and all, but she’s far too sober for thsi much human contact), but Flynn insists on taking her on a victory lap around the bar. Everyone, including the bartender and a few unfortunate servers, receives Flynn’s exhaustive spiel of her accomplishments. Jiya stands a few steps behind him, hiding her face in embarrassment and trying not to look too pleased.

“This is embarrassing,” she hisses. She’s got one hand around Flynn’s arm in a vise grip. “Are you trying to get me congratulated by everyone in the bar?”

Flynn gives her one of his Disapproving Dad looks with the hooded eyes, and says, “You’re special, and they need to know.”

Eventually she convinces him to let her perch at the bar instead. When another admirer approaches, looking hopeful, she mutters, “I need a moment,” and Flynn rises from his seat in a second.

Wrapping one arm around the baffled man, Flynn steers him away with an overenthusiastic, “Her speech was excellent, no?” Jiya snorts and orders another drink, which she puts on Flynn’s tab. He can afford it.

Once she’s started thinking about how Flynn came into his considerable wealth, however, she can’t stop, and by the time Flynn slides back onto the barstool beside her, Jiya is deep enough into her third drink to ask, “Why’d you pick me?”

Flynn’s wolfish smile falters, just for a second. “I’m sorry?”

“In that grief group, five years ago, you picked me,” Jiya says firmly, shaking her head. “There were plenty of other people there who’d lost kids, lost partners…even people who had lost them in accidents. Like you.”

Flynn’s face is unreadable. There was a time when Jiya would have hesitated even to mention this, but the five years since the Accident have allowed Flynn to heal somewhat. Jiya hopes that it’s enough, and that he won’t just walk away when she speaks. “And I was at the end of the program; you were at the beginning…” She rolls her eyes to cover the sudden pang of grief, the loss of her father suddenly as keenly sharp as the day it had happened. “And we’re so…you know…different.” Jiya laughs, barely. “Why me?”

“You really want to know?” Flynn is watching her with soft eyes. As he reaches out to steal a little of Jiya’s drink for courage, she narrows her eyes at him playfully, and Flynn winks at her over the rim of the glass.

After he sets it down, he takes a deep breath.

“I knew from the moment that we met that you were one of the smartest people I had ever met, or was ever likely to. I wanted to know you.” 

Jiya knows Flynn well enough at this point not to be thrown by the breathtaking brutality of his honesty. Flynn lifts his eyebrows as if to say,  _you did ask,_  and Jiya looks away to hide her smile. “That alone would have been enough, but also…” Flynn regards his folded hands, and for a moment Jiya catches a glimpse of the enduring sadness beneath his acerbic, practical exterior. “The others who had finished the program were all so happy, and I believed I would never have that again. You were…sharp, and funny, and dark, and I recognized that. I thought, now here’s something I could have.” Flynn won’t look at her. His brow is furrowed, almost as if in confusion, and he gestures with his hands as he speaks. “You were the reason I came back the next week. And the week after.” He falls silent, staring down at his hands.

Despite knowing full well that Flynn is a masochistic idiot happy to drag himself into misery on the shortest notice, Jiya has a sudden flash of guilt for bringing it up, and on a stupid urge to make it better, she blurts out, “You made me think of my dad.”

There’s a sharp inhale on Flynn’s part that ends on a pained noise. His hands are claws against the bar, and Jiya continues hurriedly: “I could hear you clapping, every time, after I spoke. Even then. It was…” she pushes her glass away. Flynn needs to know she means this. “It was what my dad would have done. I think.”

They sit in silence for a long time before Flynn finally croaks, “Thank you.”

Jiya finds his hand and squeezes. “Anytime.” Flynn nods, and Jiya can’t resist adding: “You’re soft, you know that?” Breath catching, Flynn laughs. It’s soft and delighted, as it had been the first time she’d ever made him laugh, during a speech in Group about her father trying to fix her car. He’d laughed the same way when she’d allowed him to take her to a (purely platonic, he’d assured her) cup of coffee. And the first time she’d gotten a hit in on him when she’d asked him to teach her self-defense. Jiya’s heard that laugh at two in the morning on their first road trip; during movie nights when ghosts won’t let them rest easy; 

After a long, companionable silence, Flynn has gathered himself enough to look up at her. Jiya can feel his sharp eyes upon her, then following her gaze, but she’s too distracted by what she’s seeing across the crowded room.

“Connor Mason.” Flynn clicks his tongue. “Your  _idol._ ”

“And Rufus Carlin,” Jiya says breathlessly. Flynn frowns.

“Who?”

“Mason’s protégé. I went to his lecture on particle physics. It was–” a hot breath. “Groundbreaking.”

Flynn hums. “Doesn’t exactly look like your brain’s doing the talking here…”

“Yeah, well.” Jiya coughs. “It was a  _really good_  lecture.” Flynn rolls his eyes, and Jiya turns on him with a little  _ha!_  “Some of us  _like_  romance,  _Spock_.”

Flynn scoffs, his canines flashing, but all the same he turns to her and lowers his head to look her in the eye. “You want him?”

“What?!” It comes out as a squawk.

“This man. Rufus, or whatever his name is. You want him?” Flynn speaks slowly, carefully, lethally, as though in frustration, although Jiya knows that perfect memory has captured the name perfectly well. When she just gapes, Flynn pats her hand and says, “Wait here.”

In the thirty seconds it takes her brain to process all that, Flynn slides off his barstool and vanishes into the crowd, barrelling across the room. Jiya yells his name and slides off her own seat, chasing him somewhat unsteadily through the crowd.

Although determined, there’s no denying her size, and by the time she clears through, she finds Flynn speaking with Mason and Rufus, just finishing up the tail end of his Jiya Spiel.

“…And here she is now,” Flynn says, looking all too delighted in the face of her murderous fury. “Jiya. Let me introduce you–”

“I know who they are,” Jiya says through a clenched smile.

“Wonderful,” Connor Mason exclaims, beckoning her over. It takes everything in Jiya’s power to walk there with dignity, and not to run to them in a fit of fangirling. There are so many questions she wants to ask, but then Connor Mason says, “We have a few openings I think you’d be interested in,” and the few professional words Jiya has at her disposal dry right up.

She can hear Flynn’s amusement when he takes Connor’s shoulder to lead him aside. “Why don’t you discuss them with me over here; let these two get acquainted.”

Mason’s brow furrows as he looks between Jiya and Rufus, who is staring at her with a smile like sunshine. “Ahem. Yes; rather.” Mason clears his throat awkwardly. When Rufus glances away, Jiya mouths in Flynn’s direction:  _I’ll kill you for real._ Flynn winks cheekily and leads Mason away.

“So.” Rufus turns to her, his shoulders doing a cute little jump, and Jiya’s face warms. “Did you come here with your…” Rufus trails off, clearly baffled by the relation between the tiny physics student and the towering Croatian in the  _Matrix_  coat.  _Manager? Father? Boyfriend? Bodyguard?_  “…Friend?”

“Friend,” Jiya confirms, though that hardly seems adequate. She catches Flynn’s eye over Rufus’s shoulder, and the corners of his mouth curl up slightly in lupine satisfaction. Slightly louder than necessary, Jiya says, “He’s my  _best_ friend.”

It might take some time to explain to Rufus, but from the way Flynn’s eyes widen like she’d jabbed him in the sternum, Jiya knows that it’s worth it.

After all, it’s true.


	21. Day 21: Walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mild language warning, featuring a slightly more evolved Wyatt than we see in canon, Flynn is an awkward idiot as usual, Alternate Subtitle: Lucy And Flynn Find A Happy Puppy (And Also Adopt A Dog).

They’re standing together in the animal shelter when Lucy’s hand slips into Flynn’s and squeezes hard.

Flynn scans the little room for stressors. Their current room doesn’t seem small enough to set off Lucy’s claustrophobia, but there’s no way of telling, really. He cocks one subtle eyebrow at her, grateful for the contact albeit confused. This strange, soft thing between them is only slowly becoming physical, and Lucy had been particularly quiet since he’d picked her up that morning. He intends to ask outright, soon; in the meantime, he’s privately hoping that she’s not getting cold feet about their new acquaintance.

Said acquaintance pads down the hall at this moment, all sleepy blue eyes and soft, athletic limbs. 

He’s got their dog with him, too. 

Robert is a black-and-white Australian Shepherd rescue with a generous ruff, a bad leg, and a corresponding penchant for being carried.  _Wyatt_  is an ex-Special Forces pretty boy whose soft features are framed by a prickly jaw and a buzzed fade, and under his soft green crewneck, enough strength to support the sixty-five pounds of excitable canine squirming in his arms.

Wyatt looks up, razor-blue eyes flashing, and an easy smirk curls his mouth. “Miss Preston.” A nod of playful mock-respect. “Mr. Flynn. Sir.”

The pull towards Wyatt is magnetic, but Flynn finds himself frozen in place. His hand around Lucy’s is like a vise. “Wyatt,” Lucy says breathlessly, and drags both of them forwards. She’s practically bouncing, and Flynn feels…something.

It’s a strange, bittersweet joy, he realizes. Wyatt and Lucy look at each other like they’re seeing the sun for the first time.

Then Wyatt turns the sunlight on him, too, and even with the safe distance of the dog between them, Flynn licks his lips.

“Robbie here’s glad you came back for him.” Wyatt ducks his head to pet the dog, his floppy fringe falling into his face. Robert’s tail is flapping.

“W–we couldn’t stay away.” The words spill out of Lucy with uncharacteristic ease. She’s tripping over her sentences and twinkling like a star, and Flynn finds himself, even after all this time, stealing smiles in her direction. She’s so rarely like this.

When Lucy reaches out to Robert, he  _ruffs_  happily and laps at Lucy’s hand, and she giggles. “He wanted to do that earlier, but, y’know.” Wyatt shrugs. “I told the poor guy to wait until the second date.”

Lucy laughs. So does Wyatt. (Flynn likes him immensely.)

All of which is increasingly difficult to hide when Wyatt’s blue gaze flickers over their joined hands. Flynn frowns. Although coupled, his relationship with Lucy is hardly traditional, and the last thing Flynn wants is for Wyatt to believe they exist in a place that he can’t enter. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“Wyatt,” Flynn manages to bite out. His voice is a little gruffer than he intends; it’s not the first time they’ve met, but Flynn is acutely aware that it’s the first time they’ve stood so close. He clears his throat, tries for a little of the easy banter they’ve carried on a few times before. “Looking scruffy, as always.”

“Hey, with role models like this guy?” Wyatt grins and hefts Robert a little in his arms. “Can’t say you blame me.”

The hint of a smile plays around Flynn’s eyes. “You should get out more.”

“Why?” Bending over to let Robert down, Wyatt glances up at them from knee height. “Who’s asking?”

“We, we were thinking of taking Robert for a walk across the street,” Lucy says, hurriedly, “before we take him home.” She takes Robert’s leash from Wyatt’s hand, and hers lingers for a moment. “Maybe you’d like to join us?”

 _Us._  Even now, Flynn can hardly believe it.

For a second, Wyatt’s eyes soften, as if with memory. But it passes like a storm, and he waves them off. “I wouldn’t wanna…intrude.”

Flynn shoots Lucy a quick look that says, all at once,  _Why would you bring this idiot into our lives,_  and  _Please don’t let him leave_.

“You wouldn’t be,” Lucy says, a little too quickly, and flashes her eyes at Flynn. “Right?”

“We’d like you to join us,” Flynn clarifies, blunt as a butter knife.

“Right.” Wyatt’s biting his lip, glancing back and forth between them. “Yeah, I could use a walk.” He glances down. “So could Robbie too, I bet. Just…lemme check with my supervisor, one sec.”

When he’s gone, Lucy tugs on Flynn’s hand, hissing insistently, “You need to reach out to him.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be your job?” Flynn’s teasing is gentle, and Lucy blushes furiously. 

“You don’t have to do…like me.” Lucy rubs her thumb over his knuckles. “Just whatever feels natural.” Her dark eyes seem to reach inside him. “I  _know_  you understand me, Flynn.”

Flynn makes a little sound of stubborn irritation, but Wyatt is returning, so he just squeezes Lucy’s hand. She squeezes back, and it says,  _I am making a space for you, if you want it._

As the three of them cross the street towards the little city park, Robert trots ahead as far as his leash will allow, straining gently towards the spread of green. Lucy smiles, and Wyatt falls in step beside her. “We weren’t sure Robbie here would ever get adopted, so I spent plenty of time with him.” Wyatt shoves his hands in his pockets, tosses his head at her puppyishly. I’m happy to brief you on him, if you like.” 

“Brief me, huh?” Lucy glances over her shoulder at Flynn, who is walking just behind them, watching their backs. He gives her a soft nod that says,  _I’m fine right where I am._

“What made you pick ol’ Robbie, anyway?”

“It was Flynn’s idea.” Lucy looks back again, in that encouraging way of hers. “He looked at Robert and just…knew. Like it was fate, I guess.”

(While that is an accurate summary of events, Flynn senses that she’s not just talking about the dog.)

Wyatt snorts softly, and Lucy wrinkles her nose at him. “What’s that about?”

“ _Fate_. It never did a damn thing for me, you know that?” Wyatt shakes his head, and–yes, definitely looks back, catches Flynn’s gaze. “I just…can’t put myself in the hands of something I can’t trust.”

“I can understand that,” Lucy says softly.

There is something here, between the two of them, that Flynn will never touch. Flynn knows it, Lucy knows it, and if Wyatt doesn’t know already, he will soon enough. But Flynn knows enough about his own heart to yearn to say,  _You would be safe in my hands_.

(He’s never said that to Lucy. He isn’t sure he ever will.)

Robert becomes occupied examining a suspicious rock, and as the three of them come to an abrupt stop, Flynn realizes they have reached the center of the park. The wilderness around him is an unfamiliar one, but not unlovely.

“What about you, Flynn?” Wyatt turns to face him completely now. “Was it fate, or just birds of a feather?” He grins pointedly at Robert, who is nosing around a well-rusted fire hydrant.

Talking to Wyatt often feels as though Flynn is edging ever closer to a precipice; he’s in complete control, but the wind sings in his ears. “I  _am_  a fool for excitable things.” He aims the comment at Lucy–plausible deniability–but there’s a little intake of breath on Wyatt’s part nonetheless.

“But you never answered the question,” Lucy points out. “Do you…you know, believe in fate?”

Flynn’s unspoken response is communicated entirely with a careful twisting of eyebrows.  _I cannot believe you are making me do this, here._

She arches one plucked brow in response. _All I’m asking is your honesty._

Robert spots a squirrel, or perhaps the ghost of one, on the other side of the park, and as they begin to walk again, Lucy and Wyatt part for him easily. Flynn finds himself, without meaning to, walking between the two of them. He gives the truest answer he knows. “I would like to.”

Lucy smiles and bumps his shoulder affectionately, and Wyatt nods faintly into the middle distance, as though he’s just found the answer to a question.

They let Robert off his leash in the middle of the park. (Wyatt, it seems, has never been much for rules, and while Lucy is initially hesitant, Flynn finds himself encouraging this course of action. Lucy becomes far more eager when she realizes it’s an excuse to leave Wyatt and Flynn alone. Flynn would almost call her pleasure catlike if she weren’t so obvious about it.) When Lucy is a safe distance away, tossing Robert a tennis ball that Wyatt seems to have magically produced from his pocket, Flynn interrupts their watching by breaking suddenly in with, “Give me your phone?”

Wyatt blinks at him, but shrugs and hands it over. Flynn is momentarily waylaid–his number, or Lucy’s? Entering his own seems a risk, but on Lucy’s orders he takes it anyway, and there’s no way to miss Wyatt’s surprised beam when he hands it back, with a new contact for  _Garcia Flynn._  “Lucy and I take Friday dinners at Casey’s, on Grand. Give me a call, and I’ll make it a reservation for three. Lucy…” Flynn shoves his hands in his pockets, suddenly feeling evasive. “Lucy would like to see you again.”

Wyatt’s brow furrows, but he’s smiling carefully into Flynn’s eyes, as though seeking permission there. Flynn observes him in return; what Wyatt says next is as important as what he doesn’t.

“ _Lucy_  would like to, huh?”

Flynn releases a chuckling breath. He’s smarter than Flynn had reckoned, this one. The words are said with such buoyant lightness that they could be a joke or a question, though what’s being asked Flynn never knows. 

Dammit, he’s making Lucy do the asking next time. (If there  _is_  a next time. Having two bright-eyed idiots twinkling in his direction might be the end of him.)

“Hmm; I suppose Robbie might like to see you, as well. If you’ve spent so much time together…” 

Wyatt nods, his mouth twisting in amusement, and glances over at Lucy. “Am I ever going to know what’s going on with you two?”

Flynn’s eyelids lower a fraction. “Come to dinner, and find out.”

“Fair enough.” Wyatt offers his hand. Flynn could shake it easily enough, he knows, pretend this was Lucy’s idea, maintain the safe distance between them. You have to know you’re afraid to want something before you can know you want it.

Luckily for Wyatt, Lucy took Flynn into her hands not so very long ago, and that was when everything changed. 

So instead, Flynn closes Wyatt’s right hand in his left one. 

Still, when Flynn murmurs  _C’mon_  and tugs gently, his fear must show in his eyes, because Wyatt gives him a smile like stardust, and situates his warm hand more firmly there. Wyatt’s touch is unfamiliar but not painful, and he lets Flynn lead him further into this strange between-place, back to where Lucy is waiting.


	22. Day 23: Tired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set post-S2, fluffy and sweet and goofy, with mild warnings for self-destructive behavior, mild language, and nongraphic nonsexual nudity. Definitely owes a debt to @amandaflynns on tumblr for kicking around different types of intimacy with me, and thematically to “useful kindness” by @electricbluebutterflies on tumblr.

“Please, Lucy.”

Long after the others have exhausted their efforts and retreated to their respective rooms, Flynn appears silently at her elbow. Lucy’s so far down the rabbit hole that she isn’t sure how long he’s been standing there, until he speaks. “Come in to bed?”

Lucy’s hand is trembling as she brushes her matted hair from her face. She catches a glimpse of Flynn’s soft green shirt and pocketed hands beside her, and swallows hard. She shouldn’t be tempted like this.

“I…I can’t, I…” She scrubs a hand over her aching eyes. “I’m fine here, Flynn, really.” It doesn’t sound convincing even to her, but Flynn is tactful enough not to speak. Lucy rests her hand palm-up on her pile of books, and Flynn enfolds her cold hand in his warm one. “You should rest.”

Flynn shifts his weight, squeezes her hand, and says with only the slightest hint of testy impatience, “Not without you, Lucy.”

The tension between them makes things easier, and Lucy finally lifts her gaze to his, cocking one skeptical eyebrow. “So dramatic.”

“Who said I’m here for you?” Flynn can’t keep the quiet laughter out of his voice, and Lucy rolls her eyes, letting the ridiculousness of that statement hang in the air. “Maybe I just want a warm body to share my bed…” Lucy snorts softly, and Flynn shuffles from foot to foot in that pleased way of his.

For a moment they simply gaze at each other. Lucy senses distantly that each of them is feeling out the other’s resistance, seeking an opening to persuade, but for the moment she’s happy simply to be here with him.

She must stare a little too long, because Flynn kneels down beside her and slides a cautious hand into her hair. Lucy wants to resist, for the sake of her argument, but she knows if she rests her head in his hand Flynn will support her, so she does.

“A shower, then.” He pats her hand. “You’re starting to attract flies, you know that?”

Lucy gives him an eyes-narrowed smile, as if to say,  _I know what you’re up to, mister._

The corner of Flynn’s mouth quirks up in a smile. He really does look remarkably innocent, damn him.

“Thirty minutes,” Lucy concedes, finally. She’s trying to sound firm, but the dignity of her command is diminished somewhat when standing causes her to stumble. She ends up leaning on Flynn’s proffered arm, laughingly brandishing a finger in his face. “Then I have to…” She’s stifled by a yawn. “Get back to work.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Flynn says, comically serious. He’s supporting most of her weight as he leads her down the hall to the bathrooms. “You’re the boss, after all.”

He quiets as they step into the bathroom, and Lucy musters her resources to direct this much. Flynn remains remarkably formal, even after all this time. 

She finds she doesn’t have the energy to communicate in their usual subtlety, however, and after a shaky attempt to unbutton her own blouse, Lucy ends up sighing and presenting her front side to Flynn. “Help me? Please?”

Flynn nods, and Lucy could laugh at the seriousness with which he sets to his task. She’s fairly certain he doesn’t breathe until the last button opens on her blouse. There’s a certain tense respect to the way he steps back once he’s finished, but Lucy doesn’t want to be respected, she wants to be held. 

Exhaustion makes her impulsive, and she steps into his space. A question crosses Lucy’s face as she tugs on the hem of his shirt. She trusts Flynn to speak up if she goes too far; the man has never been silent about expressing his concerns, as far as she is concerned. Present situation included.

Flynn sheds his shirt obediently, baring himself before her. Lucy supposes she should feel some tingle or singing in her blood at the sight, but there’s only a want as deep as her bones.

She closes the six inches between them before the exhausted cry can rip from her.

Flynn’s arms come up around her as Lucy nestles into his chest. One arm slides across the small of her back, solid as an iron bar, and the other threads its way into her hair at the nape of her neck. Flynn knows just how to cradle her head just right, and maybe she shouldn’t, but Lucy allows him.

She’s come so close to losing this.

The thought runs through her like lightning, and Lucy summons the last of her resolve to push away from him. “Shower,” she orders. “Now. Before I lose my nerve.”

Flynn thumbs a tear from her cheek, says softly, “All right.”

He takes so long setting up the water temperature that Lucy half-suspects he’s baiting her, or waiting for her to calm. When she says so, however, Flynn glances over, his lip curling, and his eyebrows dart up. “If you want something, Lucy, you just have to ask.”

Determination hardens her resolve. Lucy steps forward and starts unbuckling his pants. 

Flynn makes a noise like a bike tube going underwater. He lets Lucy continue, however, and by the time she shoves down his pants, she’s shaking violently.

“Feeling better?” Flynn says simply. He doesn’t draw closer, doesn’t say anything else, but his arms are out, like he’s ready to catch her.

Lucy steps into them.

With glacial slowness, Flynn undresses her the rest of the way as she stands there against him. Lucy lets her head rest against his chest. She’s safe in the knowledge that, safe as they are, Flynn wouldn’t touch her if he hadn’t done so many times before.

As he helps her into the shower, Flynn murmurs into Lucy’s ear, “Eighteen minutes left, huh?”

Lucy cuts her eyes at him, but Flynn just smiles gently and rocks back on his heels.

The water temperature is perfect, of course, and as determined as Lucy is to return to her studies, it’s hard to think of that when Flynn has stepped in behind her and is rubbing deviously at the knot of muscle below her spine. 

She stays that way a moment too long, enjoying the warmth and the darkness. Perhaps…

No.  _No,_  the team needs her.

Flynn’s breath ghosts over her temple. “Thinking of something?”

Two can play at that game. Lucy turns her head so that their noses hover bare inches apart. Flynn is looking at her from under his lashes. Lucy takes her lip delicately between her teeth, looks him dead in the eye, and whispers, “ _Soap._ ”

Unperturbed, Flynn’s lips curl in a smile.

He tucks her hair over her shoulder, presses a feathery kiss to the curve of her neck. Lucy’s breath hitches. 

“One moment.” Flynn’s hands leave her, leaving Lucy feeling bereft and oddly cheated. For a moment she’s overcome by a furious urge to turn and grab him back, but she has never one surrendered to Flynn, and doesn’t intend to do so now. He returns as quickly as he’d gone, anyway, and Lucy watches through half-lidded eyes as his large hands measure out two quarters’ worth of shampoo. “Did you miss me?”

“Yes,” Lucy grumbles.

“Well.” Slick with shampoo, Flynn’s long fingers thread into her hair and start working it to the root. “We can’t have that.”

 _Bastard,_  Lucy thinks, but then Flynn’s short nails scrape along her scalp, leaving little tingles behind, and she melts another fraction. 

Flynn is ever-attentive to her weakness, and takes the opportunity to find the matted knots in her hair, and begin working them free. Lucy’s so relaxed that his rumble in her ear half-wakes her. “When’s the last time you did this?”

“Showered? Um…” Lucy makes a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat. “Longer than you’d like, I’m sure.”

“I have no complaints about you, Lucy, except that I wonder why you don’t take better care of yourself.”

She snorts. “My hygiene is a sacrifice we can afford.”

“Yes, well, no one’s asking you to sacrifice that.”

Lucy’s nose wrinkles without opening her eyes. Flynn is rinsing the shampoo from her hair. “I didn’t think I smelled  _that_  bad…”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Yes? So?”

“Just observing,” Flynn says, in that quiet way that means more.

While he’s soaping her sweaty body, Lucy’s mind ticks away. She could let his comment lie, of course, but Flynn has a way of bringing truth to the surface, and the words press urgently on her lips.

“I feel like it’s all on my shoulders,” she admits with a heavy sigh. “The history part, at least. It’s…not easy, not that you need to hear about  _that._ ”

“Mmm.” Flynn’s hum rumbles through her. He’s silent for a long moment before he responds. “You can feel the fear like a physical thing, can’t you? Like a dog, nipping at your heels.”

“I don’t want to lose,” Lucy admits breathlessly. By now Flynn is standing in front of her, blocking the spray, and her eyes open. “The battle. The war.” Flynn strokes her jugular, frowning. “You.”

“That’s good to know.” Flynn’s voice, and his joke, is gentle as a feather. Lucy looks up, and Flynn kisses her hairline. “I promise not to go anywhere, all right?”

Lucy’s eyes are dark and luminous. “Yes. I trust you.” 

“Five minutes,” Flynn says after they step out, while they’re toweling each other off. He hardly seems to notice that he’s holding Lucy so close that her toes are brushing the ground.

Lucy raises her shaking arms and speaks sleepily. “Shush, and let me dry your perfect hair.”

She’s not entirely certain how she made it down the hall and into his bedroom, only that she finds herself sitting sideways in Flynn’s lap in the chair at the back of his room. (She vaguely remembers insisting  _you aren’t going to get me into bed–stop smirking–sit in the chair._ ) Flynn is supporting her back while Lucy curls around his head, sleepily determined to get the perfect part into his hair.

“You don’t have to use my comb,” Flynn grumbles. “I’m sure we could find something better. I don’t want to end up looking like Wyatt.”

“Wyatt looks just fine. Besides which, I never brushed his hair.”

“Thank the lord for small favors.”

“Be nice,” Lucy instructs dizzily.

“Yes, ma’am,” Flynn says, and kisses her throat.

He takes up brushing her hair after that, with long, easy strokes. “One minute left, Lucy.”

“No, no, I surrender.” Lucy realizes belatedly that she’s fisted a hand in his shirt. As if Flynn would ever leave her. She doesn’t open her eyes. “You don’t need me to be able to sleep.” The thought has only just crossed her mind. “You just wanted…” A yawn. “To get me to sleep when the others couldn’t…”

Flynn hums. “Yes, that’s true. But I  _wanted_  your help, too.”

Lucy lets her head loll back, and Flynn nuzzles into her throat. They stay like that for long moments, absorbing each other’s warm presences. When Flynn kisses her jugular, Lucy grumbles into his neck. “You are a  _demon,_  Garcia Flynn.”

“Maybe.” He purrs, almost, and his firm hands continue gently rubbing the ache out of her bad shoulder. “I prefer to think of myself as your guardian angel.”

“Mm, that serves me right…”

“Yes, Lucy, it does.”


	23. Day 23: Meditation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to just be riya, but Flynn snuck in (literally and figuratively), as usual. Set post-S2, with warnings for hospitals, religious content and doubt, and mild injury.

 

“We got lucky, you know,” Rufus says, into the familiar warmth of Jiya’s palm. “Even without believing in…anything, like Lucy or Flynn do, I can…admit that.”

There’s no response, except the beating of Jiya’s heart on the monitors.

Rufus keeps talking. “Lucky to be born, for starters. And lucky not to die. There were…” His voice trembles. “ _So_  many times we could’ve died, right?” Rufus looks up at the ceiling of the little hospital room. Its proximity and plainness only seem to confirm his lack of belief, but isn’t this what people do when they pray?

 _No atheists in foxholes,_  Flynn had observed. Rufus glances over at the six-foot assassin beside him, collapsed into a fold-out chair and snoring like the dead, and thinks,  _Strange bedfellows._

“Look at me,” Rufus mumbles, more to himself than Jiya. “Prayers and cliches.” He tries to smile, but it cracks on a sob instead, and he presses his forehead to her knuckles, breathes: “Pathetic.”

Her chest rises and falls in answer.

This last seizure had been the worst of them. When Jiya failed to wake up, a modern hospital had been procured, along with dispensation for Rufus to follow his beloved aboveground. Flynn had  _not_  been given permission, as far as Rufus knows, but had appeared in her hospital room within hours anyway.

For perhaps the second time since they first met, Rufus is grateful to have Flynn at their side. They’ve been trading off shifts, watching for any change in Jiya’s condition.  _Coma,_  the doctors had said, but couldn’t tell him much more.

Rufus tortures himself with the sight of her for another long moment, but shockingly, his prayers go unanswered. He brushes a kiss along Jiya’s knuckles, before he returns her hand to the bedspread, and his attention to the Lifeboat schematics in his lap. Just because he’s given up praying doesn’t mean he’s given up believing, and Rufus knows, at least, the measure of his own gifts and limits.

He doesn’t realize he’s nodded off until the sound of voices wakes him.

Or– _voice._  He’s disappointed to realize, once he’s disentangled himself from sleep, that it’s only Flynn, head bowed low over the votive candle burning in his hands.

That’s not the only candle in the room, Rufus realizes as his vision comes into focus. A cluster of them flicker on Jiya’s nightstand, stalwart against the darkness. Flynn is speaking in a language Rufus doesn’t understand, although he’s skilled enough with patterns to detect the same arrangement of words, repeated endlessly and ardently.

“Is that the  _rosary?_ ” Rufus blurts, sleep encumbering his already limited social graces. Only when Flynn’s head shoots up does he begin to think he should have kept quiet: the man is wide-eyed, like he’s been caught out. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that as accusing as it came out; I’m just surprised–you pray?”

“Not often.” Flynn clears his throat roughly, then gives a laugh like sandpaper. “You know, it was the only thing I could remember?” 

Rufus nods. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“Sorry to wake you.”

“Don’t be. I feel guilty, sleeping. You know?”

It’s Flynn’s turn to nod glumly, avoiding his gaze.

“If you want–I mean, if it helps–it won’t bother me if–” For a moment, Rufus waffles over his words. A deep breath. “You could keep going.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to–”

“It would help keep me awake,” Rufus offers, “at the very least. And–” He gives a little laugh, hardly able to believe he’s saying this. “It can’t make things any worse.” Flynn gives him a very strange, furrowed-brows look, but at this point Rufus is too good at keeping secrets, and doggedly refuses to meet his gaze.

The room is almost too dark to see his schematics, so after a few minutes of squinting stupidly at the specs, Rufus reaches for one of the votive candles. The flame wavers in the air, and he gives a little  _whoa_  and pulls it close. “Careful there,” Flynn warns, serious and belatedly. A fat dollop of melted wax slips off the tilted candle and lands solidly on the back of Rufus’s hand.

He curses–that burns, and shouldn’t votive candles be made of less painful stuff, realizing belatedly that these are probably not Catholic-issue, but rather stolen from somewhere by Flynn. A glance at his criminal companion’s wince confirms it.

“Give it back,” Flynn orders, but Rufus stubbornly ignores him. If he gave up every time something hurt a little, they’d never get anywhere. Besides (thank…someone), he’s no longer the skinny kid who froze up under fear.

Flynn watches him for another second, his face furrowed in a look that says,  _Are you an idiot?_

Sometimes, Rufus wonders if they will ever understand each other.

Then, wonder of wonders, Flynn shrugs, withdraws his hand, and settles low in his chair, closing his eyes.

They may not understand each other, but they have an understanding, and that seems to be enough.

So, as Garcia Flynn begins to pray beside him, and Rufus ignores the hot wax burning his hand by intervals, and the heartbeat of the woman he loves continues in eternal cadence, Rufus bends low over the plans to his impossible machine. They are all alive, and within his reach. 

It’s not the miracle they need, but it’s the one they’ve been given.


	24. Day 24: Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set post-S2, with no warnings necessary. Soft bunker fluff.

Jiya drifts slowly up, out of a heavy sleep, to find late afternoon light filtering through the windows, and distant music drifting down the hall.

Rufus is gone, which isn’t unusual. Neither of them can sit still for very long these days, and Jiya barely has a moment to enjoy having the cot to herself before the weight of their duties settles over her like a damp blanket. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to escape it, and the music filters in, like a breath of air through dust.

Getting out of bed proves she’s not useless. For a moment Jiya stands there, her feet freezing to the concrete floor. Then, before she knows it, she’s halfway down the hall, following the music.

The common room is a scene. In the center of it all is Mason, commanding the room from his position by the record player, and scolding Wyatt when he tries to start up a line dance. Lucy is giggling uncontrollably while performing an uncoordinated up-and-down wriggle, and Rufus is earnestly instructing a solemn Flynn on proper robot technique.

Jiya pulls up a chair near the latter two. There’s that familiar tugging at her heart, of wanting to join them, but of not knowing how.

But then Wyatt half-tackles Lucy to stop her cartoonish flailing, insisting he’s going to teach her a dance that involves keeping both feet on the ground. And Flynn begins an exaggerated air guitar, and both Mason and Lucy scold him loudly that that’s not historically accurate, and for the first time in days, Jiya allows herself a smile. 

She must be more distracted than she thinks, because she doesn’t notice Rufus until he’s pressing a kiss to her temple. “You slept in.”

A spike of guilt. “Yeah, sorry. Did I miss you dancing?”

“Yeah, I was never…” Rufus waves a vague hand. “I have exactly three moves. Y’know. I’m good with my hands, not so much with my feet.” He snorts. “You must be the same way, right? Nerds.”

“Oh? Oh, no,” she laughs, “I was a baby ballerina.”

Rufus had been sipping a soda, which he spits across the room.

“You–you were–” He sputters, and then he buries his face in his hands, dying of laughter. “Sorry, I just can’t–can’t imagine–”

“Are you done?” She can’t keep the smile off her face.

“Pictures,” Rufus says, wiping the tears from his eyes, “or it didn’t happen.”

“I was good at it!” Jiya insists. “Gymnastics, too.”

“So why’d you stop?”

Jiya shrugs, smiling. “Never found the right person to dance with, I guess.”

“Yeah? Wish I’d been there.”

“Really? You’d dance with me? If I asked?” 

_Would you include me?_

Rufus gives her a considerate smile. Then he bounces to his feet, and while she’s still gawking, gives an elaborate bow. “Can I have this dance?”

She laughs, but lets him pull her to her feet. “Only if you never do that again.”

“…Yeah, that’s fair.”

They’re doing a halfhearted little shuffle, and the silence is filling up her brain, so Jiya glances down. “You really don’t like dancing, huh.”

“Yeah, but for you…” Rufus snuffs softly, looking away, adorable, embarrassed. “I’d do anything.”

Jiya takes his head in her hands, makes him look at her. Those soft, dark eyes make her knees weak. There are times she can’t believe she’s loved this much.

As Rufus pulls her close, sliding his arm around her so they can sway, he whispers into her ears, “Even if I only have three moves.” Jiya nestles her nose into his shoulder. Better than ballet.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be done loving you,” she whispers. 

Rufus holds her tight, and a little more weight lifts off Jiya’s shoulders.


End file.
